


all of my wrongs and all my wicked ways

by carrionkid



Series: Devil In The Details-Verse [3]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: (technically) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Heroes to Villains, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Pining, Vigilante-Centric Semi-Nonsexual Throuple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-04-07 01:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 86,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: this takes place in the same verse as devil in the details, following the events of the main fic. kind of an epilogue kind of a sequel?or how the triad learned how to function after the world came back together.rated M for violence and non-explicit sexual situations





	1. part i

He's been in a bad way for a long while, back before the city fell apart. Doesn't much remember what happened after they killed Fisk; Red took over in his stead and everyone was too happy about finally having someone to tell 'em what to do to ask too many questions about where he was.

 

Red's a good talker, probably gave a nice speech. He knows Elektra took over the dirty work, the things Red couldn't do. Figures he'll probably do the same when he's back in working order.

 

Hasn't been doing much of anything, so far. He cleaned up all the blood, all his blood, down on his hands and knees. Real hard to get it out of carpet and his knees were bruised by the time it was done.

 

Elektra had watched him, in that awful way that always makes his skin crawl. And she had asked why he was doing it. Didn't have an answer at all, just felt like he needed to.

 

Other than that, he called someone to fix the window. He's been spending a lot of time behind Fisk's desk, calling people and setting up meetings and trying to stabilize what's left of his empire. It's not something he ever  _ wanted  _ to be doing, but it seems like he's the only one who knows how to do it.

 

But they'll have to move soon. The national guard is pulling out and people are gonna start heading back to work.

 

He's been looting the apartment. What Red doesn't know can't hurt him and Elektra's been helping him out, fencing whatever he's picked out. She keeps the money, doesn't seem to trust him with it but  that's alright because maybe she'll warm up to him. They have to have a backup plan. Red’s out of a job and no one’s really been looking for a place to live other than him.

 

Hasn't really been out of the apartment much because he's been so fucked up. Doesn't want to do any lasting damage and he hasn't been this beat to shit in a while. Doesn’t help that he’s coming down  off his meds, either.

 

That’s another thing to add to the list, right after making sure they’ve got somewhere to sleep when everyone realizes Fisk’s building isn’t abandoned. Hasn’t gotten desperate enough to ask Red. It just sounds pathetic to admit that Fisk took care of all the doctors, all the appointments, for him.

 

He’s getting better, though. Been awake just as many hours out of the day as he spends asleep. Pretty sure he’s kicked the infection in the worst of his cuts. Arms are still damned itchy, though. It usually takes him a good while to heal up, always knows his limits, how much time he’ll need between scraps.

 

After they killed Fisk, he spent the first few days drifting in and out of consciousness. Everything got to him at once and put him well and truly out of commission. He knows it’s gotta count for something that Elektra didn’t just put him out of his misery and tell Red he aspirated in his sleep.

 

It was a nightmare, feverish and frantic and half the time he didn’t know where he was. But there’s part of him that misses it. Misses Red shaking him awake and trying to make him eat something, misses how cool Red’s hands felt against his burning skin.

 

Sometimes, he can even convince himself that Red’s worried about him.

 

They’ve fallen into a routine by now, over the past week or so. It’s not a good one, not at all, but it’s a routine and that settles him down a bit. Elektra and Red head out, work on settling tensions and mediating fights. He keeps working on the paperwork. They come home each night and don’t talk over dinner. And after Red and Elektra are in bed, he slips in and fits perfectly right next to Red.

 

He really didn’t figure it’d last this long. Thought for sure they’d kick him out after the first night, after he was lucid enough to know he was in their bed. But they haven’t. Still let him crawl in with them every night.

 

Elektra hasn’t made good on her threat, either. But he hasn’t kissed Red again, no matter how much he might want to. Only happened ‘cos Matty wanted Elektra, anyway. Might be okay with Bullseye hanging around, but he doubts Red would ever want him like  _ that _ .

 

There must be something, though. Something he’s doing right. Can’t imagine they’d let him keep doing this if there wasn’t.

 

He’s got a routine of his own. Usually wakes up after Red and Elektra are long gone and the bed is cold save for himself. On the days he’s lucky, they’re still around, both on the tail end of breakfast and things are different enough in the morning that they’ll actually talk. Doesn’t happen often, but he likes it when it does.

 

He's not lucky now. The penthouse is empty and cold and sets his teeth on edge. Reminds him too much of going to see Fisk and hoping he won't end up hurt bad enough that he won't be able to put food on the table.

 

So he puts on the radio, searches through channels til he finds one with the blues; aren't a lot of things that stay consistent but he's always liked the blues. Once he's happy with the station, he fixes something to eat. Even reads the papers over breakfast, like he's one of the office worker drones.

 

The news was one of the first things to get started back up. Never really cared for it much unless he was collecting press about himself but he gets it now. Helps figure out how things are shaking out and what he oughta do for the day. Sometimes Red even asks him what he oughta do next, out on the street.

 

After that, he always gets cleaned up. Can't afford to get a cut re-infected and Red likes it better when he doesn't smell like blood from something worked back open.

 

The water pressure is strong as fuck in the shower. Makes the bruises on his back ache, but sometimes he needs that. He knows his limits, won't go too far but he figures he and Red won't be sparring any time soon so he's trying to make it last.

 

Thing is, he doesn't know if he wants to go back to being sparring partners. Maybe something else. Even realized a thing or two, like the fact that the common denominator seems to be wanting to get Red's hands on him.

 

A couple of times, he's crossed a line. Elektra's let him get away with it, which probably means it isn't much of a line at all.

 

Finally let him in the bath with them, once. Almost couldn't take the closeness, though the reasons he couldn't take it vary for Red and Elektra. But sometimes he ekes out a little time to think about it, how it could've gone if things were different, if Red didn't get all antsy whenever they touch.

 

Doesn't usually go anywhere, he just ends up wasting half the morning in the shower, pissed off and cold but he's not paying the water bill.

 

Doesn't much like all the mirrors, either. But he still checks over himself each morning anyway. Did it too many times and now it's part of the routine. No one ever sees him do it, twisting around and pinching at his skin like it's a goddamn diet advertisement. Everything about him is crooked, teeth missing, one eye busted, shoulders uneven, one hip out of place.

 

The light makes his eyes look sunken, skin sallow. The cuts are mostly closed up, though, which he's thankful for. Something's gotta be wrong with him because this seems to take so much longer than it does for Red and Elektra. Ribs are still bruised, things are more or less usual. Nothing's numb that isn't supposed to be.

 

(He's most worried about that one. Docs talked about nerve damage, lots of things can go wrong with a procedure like that. Got the sense they didn't care too much either way, might be doing the world a service if they did go wrong.)

 

It's something private, intimate. Not like Elektra dabbing concealer around a black eye. That’s almost felt meaningful, concrete, the few times he's been sitting on the counter, brushing his teeth while Elektra does her hair, puts her face on, with Red placing himself between them as he shaves. It's more of a fantasy than a reality, but it's a good one.

 

He thinks about it when he gets dressed. The world where they're living together,  _ really  _ living together. Not like this.

 

He works best with a goal in mind. Knows how to deal with destinations. There's a lot of them now, ones he never even thought about. Takes a lot of work to keep things running smoothly.

 

He's finishing out Fisk's deals in progress. It'll do some good to make it known that their word is bond. Don't want to make too many enemies, either. But that means shuffling money around and he can only access a good quarter of what Fisk has squirrelled away. Can't withdraw anything without raising a few heads, but he can make sure the deals go through. 

 

Isn't half bad at it, either, considering he can't manage to get an apartment on his own. But that's more complicated than this. Already knows who he's supposed to be pretending to be.

 

People know he's not Fisk, just from the voice, but he knows Fisk well enough to talk like him. Think like him, even. It's not a mindset he wants to get lost in, but it's better than losing touch with reality,  watching the window.

 

It's not the one he got thrown through. Not the same glass, isn't even reinforced. But it looks the same.

 

He's glad he's not out on the streets. Couldn't take another fight right now, but he's going stir crazy, can't cope. The routine helps but it isn't keeping him from losing touch with the world.

 

Doesn't help that the city's so quiet. Makes it feel like this is all some kind of fucked up nightmare. Only reason he figures it's real is because of Red and Elektra, but even then, they're letting him stay here with them.

 

“Mister… Fisk? Are you still holding? I'm so, so sorry about the wait.”

 

He shakes his head, tries to slip back into the voice. He's got it down to a science now; everyone's afraid of Fisk and no one knows he's dead.

 

“It's still just the assistant. He's not being cooperative today, you know how it is,” he winces, audibly sucks air in through his teeth, “I can ask for him again, but you really don't want him angry. Last  company that got him mad still hasn't brought the stocks back up.”

 

“Oh, um, I, I can call back tomorrow, but this is  _ time sensitive.” _

 

He's got it, he’s right where he needs to be, “If you help me out, I'll help you out. We can finalize the deal right now and Mister Fisk can sign it when he's in a better mood.”

 

“That's not generally how we operate around here,” the representative sounds apprehensive, but not quite outraged; still has a chance.

 

“Please, man, he's,” Bullseye drops his voice low, conspiratorial, “He's the owner of my apartment building, paid for half the rent with bonuses.”

 

“Okay, just this once. Because I know he's good for the money.”

 

“Thank you, god, thank you  _ so much _ ,” he takes the pen from behind his ear, starts thumbing through the actual assistant's notes, “It says here that we're giving you guys a ten million advance and you get, uh, thirty percent cut for the first three years?”

 

“Oh, he must've forgotten to tell you, we had a counter-offer of forty five percent, so long as we rebrand to use his name.”

 

So the representative is still playing a game. Doesn't feel as bad as he tried to sound like he did.

 

“Don’t worry about rebranding. Mister Fisk's getting worried about having his name on too many things after what happened back in January with the Bell System.”

 

The representative winces and he can't help but smile. Never kept up with the news before, but he went back and picked up anything that could get him where he needs to be.

 

“I'll make sure you get forty percent, even if you don't rebrand. I've got your back.”

 

“Okay, but you better fax over the contract ASAP.”

 

“Will do, you can call us back whenever you need to.”

 

“ _ You better not fuck this up _ ,” the representative hisses, “ _ I'm putting my neck on the line for you. _ I'll be expecting the paperwork shortly. It's been a pleasure doing business with you.”

 

He hangs up. Already has the contract ready, Fisk's had it for months. Just has to change the terms a bit, but he's been fucking around with forgeries since he was a child.

 

It's easy. Doesn't seem like it should be this easy but it is. The stakes are high, but it's not his problem. Nobody knows who he is, nobody knows he’s pulling the strings.

 

Fisk's body was cleaned up right quick after the guard showed up, but there's still a big bloodstain on the concrete outside. Haven't come right out and said he's dead yet, but they also haven't frozen his accounts. It's only a matter of time once things calm down.

 

The sirens were going nonstop for a while there. Had the three of them hiding each time a chopper passed by, trying to stay out of sight. Now they’re silent, which is almost worse in a way. Drives home the fact that they’re running out of time. He’s the only one who seems to care.

 

Makes him restless, but the less things they touch, the better and it’s a whole nother issue to deal with if he puts anything in the walls. Might get people reading something into it when there’s nothing to find. Might lead back to him, somehow, which would just hurt Red and Handsome.

 

So he burns off the energy by pacing around. Sleeps when he gets too worn out, picks up pacing again. There isn’t much work to do on this side of things and Red and Handsome haven’t let him do anything for the other side of things considering he’s the one what put them in this position. Still makes him feel like a kept man, though.

 

* * *

Elektra and Red get in when he’s drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. He’s all curled up in Fisk’s chair, big enough that he can fit his whole body on it relatively comfortably, folded inward, knees against his chest, to protect the vulnerable parts of himself. The sound of footsteps makes him jolt with a start, doesn’t even bother trying to cover it up once he realizes who it is. Just jumps to his feet to go meet them.

 

“We have to leave,” he says, hates how scared he sounds because he’s trying to put his foot down, give an order instead of a suggestion, “We’re running out of time.”

 

“You’re not being realistic, Bullseye,” Red sounds like he’s chiding him.

 

“No,  _ you’re  _ not being realistic,” he spits, “Someone’s gonna come up here any day now and they’re gonna see that someone’s been living here. We gotta get out, gotta find somewhere else. As it stands,  I’m making half the damn market think he’s still alive and it’s gonna be a clusterfuck when everyone finds out he  _ isn’t.” _

 

Red opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. Can’t seem to find the words to a response. It’s the first time any of them have admitted it out loud. They killed Wilson Fisk. Elektra may have been the one who dealt the final blow, but it was the three of them.

 

“I don’t wanna run, either, Red. But we gotta. I feel like shit, I’m still sleeping more than I oughta, but everyone’s trying to put the world back to rights and we’re gonna get found out if we don’t get out  _ right now.” _

 

Elektra sets her jaw, hands clenched to fists at her side, “I believe he is right. For once.”

 

“Fine,” Red throws his hands up, “Where do you want to  _ go?  _ Last I heard, Fisk put you up in that apartment of yours. He seems to do that a lot, doesn’t he?”

 

It stings, but Bullseye’s more hung up on the fact that Red’s still using present tense.

 

“I need you to trust me, just once,” he’s damn near begging, “Please, I’ve got a bad feeling about this and I’m telling you, we need to run. Elektra has money, make up some fuckin’ sob story about the war tearin’ up your old place. Do whatever you have to, please, just trust me.”

 

“It’s not easy to just  _ get  _ an apartment. Not that you would know about that,” Red says, cool and even, but he’s not shooting the idea down.

 

“Stop sounding so  _ calm  _ about this. What the fuck are you two doing all day? What’s taking up so much time that you can’t tell that the sirens have stopped? That people are starting to go back home? That the guard’s pulling out?”

 

“We are  _ trying  _ to clean up your  _ mess,”  _ Elektra’s composure is just starting to crack.

 

It’s easy to gang up on him, isn’t it? He knows she agrees with him, but she doesn’t want Red to think they could get along.

 

“ _ You _ did this to us. We’re trying to stop anyone else from dying. We’ve been fighting off the Hand for three days, we had to go get your little following to stop waiting for you to come save them, we had  to dodge all of my old colleagues, my old  _ friends  _ because they still think that we  _ wanted  _ this.”

 

“Fuck, you think I’m enjoying this? Think I planned on ruining everything? I didn’t want this,  _ either _ . I just wanted  _ you.” _

 

It’s more than he should’ve said, but he’s already fucked as it is. And Elektra’s looking at him, teeth clenched, eyes bulging like she’s damn near ready to pop a blood vessel. Maybe she’ll finally put him out of his misery, give him a few less things to worry about.

 

“You  _ wanted  _ me?” Red laughs, head thrown back, almost scary, “Well, you got me. Congratulations! You ruined my life! You cost me my job! My  _ duty _ ! Everyone who’s ever trusted me, other than Elektra! No one will work with me, other than you! No one even believes that I didn’t kill anyone,  _ other than you!  _ So good job! You did it, Bullseye.”

 

He really fucking hates that he gets all teary eyed whenever anyone yells at him. Doesn’t know how he made it so long working for Fisk.

 

“I didn’t want you like this,” his voice cracks and he really should learn when he should just keep his mouth shut.

 

“Oh? Then how, pray tell, did you want me?”

 

“Fuck you. I’m not doing this.”

 

Half the reason he’s dipping out is because he doesn’t want either of them to wise up to the fact that he’s about to cry. Stupid, hot, angry tears welling up in his eyes. Maybe this is really how Matty feels. This is all one big joke, that’s why he’s still allowed in bed with them.

 

The penthouse is big enough that he could get away from them for a good couple of hours, but he doesn't like moving around it much. Still feels like he's intruding. So he ends up back in the bedroom, one of the few places he doesn't feel so fucking  _ watched. _ He doesn't believe in ghosts, mostly because he can't. Killed too many people to sleep soundly at night if they're still out there. 

 

But he does believe in cameras. Hasn't searched the penthouse yet because he's trying to not give in to that fear. Elektra would catch him at it and she'd smile all smug-like. There's nothing saying it's got any sense to it, though. If someone was watching, they'd have intervened by now.

 

If it comes down to it, he might have to cut and run. He doesn't want to leave them, even after fighting like that. He figures it was bound to happen eventually. But Red’s question is still rolling around in his head.

 

Doesn't even know  _ how  _ he wants Matty. Just wants him more than anything, closer than close, wrapped around his heart. Maybe it's obvious to everyone else, but it doesn't make sense to him. He thought he wanted Matty to hurt him, still does because that's something he can control, but that pales in comparison to just lying next to him.

 

He's crying now, true and proper and he hates it. Doesn't even want to be doing it. Hurts the bruises on his ribs, the way the sobs are wracking his body, scraping him clean inside. It's quiet, though. He's good at keeping quiet. 

 

It's the same old, same old. Red's just found new ways to hurt him. He'd rather take the broken bones and black eyes.

 

* * *

Didn't quite realize he was in the bathroom, but Handsome is too. Must've slipped in after him because she's standing behind him. His eyes are ringed, blotchy between the dark circles and mottled bruises. But the tears are dry. The water's on and the skin on the back of his hands looks raw, like he's been washing them over and over.

 

He shuts the water off and turns around, “What the  _ fuck  _ do you want?”

 

“I will look for a place to stay. Matthew is angry, but he will understand soon enough.”

 

“You're both terrible, you know that. You think  _ I'm _ the bad one?”

 

Elektra crosses her arms, looks like she wants to give him a piece of her mind, but she speaks evenly, “You are not subtle. It makes you an easy target.”

 

“What does that  _ mean?”  _ His voice strains, verges on cracking.

 

“You are in love with him.”

 

“I'm  _ not.” _

 

“You ran from a fight with your tail between your legs and I found you crying in front of the bathroom mirror.”

 

It's a stupid, stupid move but he charges her. Has surprise on his side, even has enough of a head start to throw her back onto the ground. And he gets her pinned down, straddling her stomach with his hands wrapped around her throat.

 

They're still fucked up, one hasn't fully recovered from when he broke his thumb, so trying to strangle her is mostly for show. And she knows it. 

 

Gives him a few seconds of success before catching his chin with the meat of her palm. Snaps his head backwards, makes his vision go all spotty.

 

She flips him over when he's dazed. Forces him to look to the side, cheek pressed against the carpet as she holds him down. He goes limp underneath her, waits for this all to be over.

 

“Listen to me,” she digs her nails into the soft skin of his face, “Do not  _ ever  _ do that again.”

 

“I won’t, I won’t, I promise.”

 

He’ll say anything to get her off of him, but there’s some truth to it. She’s already warned him, but he was pissed off and this is what he really wanted, anyway.

 

“I am trying to help you. It is  _ agonizing  _ to watch you be this naive.”

 

And then she stands up, straightens out her skirt and leaves him on the floor. He curls up small, shouldn't be enjoying the new ache all over as much as he does.

 

He doesn't want to fall asleep here, doesn't much like feeling stiff and uncertain. At least the pain will help with that. She didn't even do much to him, he's just already so fucked up and broken. It's nothing he isn't used to.

 

* * *

His life is a fucking nightmare, has to be, otherwise Red wouldn't be shaking him awake. Didn't want to fall asleep, but apparently he doesn't have any say in the matter. 

 

He rolls over to face Matty, crouched down next to him.

 

“You shouldn't get in fights you know you're going to lose,” Red says, nice and soft and no edge to his voice.

 

Makes his stomach turn, though, because he's pretty sure Elektra told Red that he was crying.

 

“We're all on edge, Bullseye. We're all scared.”

 

“You're not doing  _ anything  _ to save us,” Bullseye whines.

 

And Matty reaches out, fingers brushing against his face. Like it's supposed to be comforting. Like that's something Matty does with people like Bullseye. Doesn't even care that this doesn't fit, he just closes his eyes and lets Red smooth back what little hair he has.

 

“I think your fever is back,” Red still sounds gentle.

 

He opens his eyes back up, trying to get a read on Red, “Nothing new about that.”

 

Matty frowns, worries at his lip, can't seem to find how to respond to that, “Why don't you get in bed, at least?”

 

He's kind of thinking Red will just leave him there, figure he did all he could and he can go to sleep without this weighing on his consciousness. But Matty takes his hand and pulls him up to his feet.

 

It's funny. He's the one who said they couldn't take him to a medic in the first place. Like neither of them could fathom just getting through it alone because there's some things you can't tell doctors.

 

Matty's right, though. He's sweating hot and cold and feels unsteady on his feet. Red still has his hands on his shoulders, like he's scared Bullseye might fall over. If it was something he could get away with, he'd hold onto Matty.

 

“We still need to leave, Red. That's not just the fever talking.”

 

“We're not having this talk now.”

 

He falls silent. Just wants to hang around in the moment for a while. He wants Red to keep smoothing back his hair and steadying him. Doesn't want to fight anymore, not like what happened earlier.

 

But Matty pulls back, satisfied that Bullseye isn't gonna fall over, and it's all over. He pushes past Red, hates that he's giving him the satisfaction of being right, but he's tired. Doesn’t even bother  getting undressed before climbing into the bed and he’s not even hoping for Matty to come on over and sit at the edge of the bed.

 

But he does, and then he sighs, letting his shoulders slump forward, and he rests a hand on Bullseye’s forearm, fingers drumming soft against his skin.

 

“You’re not okay,” Matty says, plain as the day is long.

 

“I’m fine,” he whines, even if he can’t ignore how bad he’s been feeling, how his head’s starting to ache, “Been through worse than this and I’m always fine.”

 

“You should stop being stubborn and see a doctor. The city’s crawling with them now.”

 

“Don’t need one. I can deal with this.”

 

Matty smiles, small and sad, “You can’t will yourself out of an infection.”

 

“Fuck you. This is easy. Try being a little kid cooped up alone in a trailer that’s hotter than hell when you’ve got chicken pox or some shit like that and then get back to me.”

 

“Just because you’ve done it by yourself before, doesn’t mean you have to now.”

 

“Leave me alone,” he growls, “Like  _ you  _ even believe that shit.”

 

“I’ll find somewhere for us to go if you let someone help you. It doesn’t even have to be a civilian doctor. I think the Night Nurse still owes me a favor or two.”

 

“That’s not fair.”

 

“No,” Red laughs, “It’s not. But those are my terms.”

 

He’s not above agreeing to something if it’ll save his skin, never has been, “Fine.”

 

“Sleep first. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”

 

He’s angry, downright fucking livid, that Red thinks he can just act like this after the fight. But it’s so good, the cold, softness of Red’s hands, brushing over his cheeks again. Like maybe this isn’t just a joke.

 

“You don’t care about me, do you?” He looks Matty in the eyes, wants to hear him admit it out loud, “You’re just doin’ this to get me to settle down.”

 

Worst part is, it’s working. And Red’s silence is an answer enough. Keeps on running his fingers over Bullseye’s face, up into the shock of his hair, just to start back over again. It’s rhythmic, just how he  likes. A constant loop.

 

“Go to sleep,” Red’s put a bit of force to it, isn’t a suggestion.

 

But he likes direction, and this is good. Eyes heavy and lidded already, cheeks flushed but you can chalk it up to the fever. Doesn’t make up for the fight, but he gets the sense that Red never apologizes unless he has to.

 

* * *

He wakes up cold, alone. Sunlight spills in through the windows of the bedroom, but it doesn’t help much so he just ends up curled tight in on himself, trying to get warm. Still, he knows he’s gotta get up if he wants to find Red, won’t come to Bullseye if he doesn’t have to.

 

He’s still in the clothes from yesterday, which is to say one of Red’s shirts and the suit, half unzipped, sleeves tied around his waist like it’s a mechanic’s jumpsuit. Didn’t have anything other than the clothes on his back when he got here and Handsome only bothered to go out and get some of her and Red’s digs.

 

Red’s still around, for once. Which would be nice if it didn’t feel like some kind of trap.

 

“Ready to go? It’s already after two.”

 

Bullseye doesn’t mean to flinch at his voice; jogs his memory, though. They’re supposed to go to a doctor.

 

“I don’t have insurance,” he says, and it’s not entirely an excuse.

 

“She owes me a few favors. You won’t need it.”

 

There’s no good way to argue against that, so he just heads on over to the elevator. Starts pulling his boots on and waits for Red to join him.

 

“You don’t need to be worried,” Red leans against the wall next to where Bullseye is on the floor, arms crossed.

 

“I’m not.”

 

And Red doesn’t know him, but he can read him somehow. The protestation is for show, for both of them to enjoy.

 

Red toes his shoes on, standing up the whole time. And they head down to the lobby, out to the sidewalk. Looks empty, but something more like normal.

 

Bullseye hasn’t really been outside in a while, which is the explanation he’s going with for why the daylight hurts his head so bad. Leaves him squinting and antsy and not any more okay with this  situation.

 

Red leads him down the veins of back roads, path designed to lose any tails you might have, but he’ll have it down pat by the time they get back to the penthouse. He stays close by. Wouldn’t run,  couldn’t even if he wanted to, but Red doesn’t know that. Red’s dead focused on getting them to their destination, but he’s kidding if he thinks Red doesn’t know where Bullseye is with every step.

 

They stop outside of a beat up building, metal door on the ground floor with a single naked bulb overhead. Red knocks three times and waits.

 

Takes a few minutes, but the door opens as far as the chain will let it. There’s a woman between the gap from frame to door, lips set in a thin line.

 

“What is it this time?”

 

Red wrings his hands, “I’m calling in one of my favors.”

 

She sighs, shuts the door only to open it right back up, chain off. Bullseye falls into step behind Red, doesn’t much like the place but he’s never been too keen on doctors  _ period.  _ Still, looks like it’s run out of a fucking morgue and that sets his teeth on edge.

 

The hallways aren’t lit worth shit, but the examination room is damn near bright as day. The woman, the night nurse, if Red’s word is anything to go off of, pats the metal table in the center of it twice. Sound echoes off the walls and it makes him wince. But the message is clear, so he hops up on it, ankles crossed all dainty-like and hands clasped in his lap.

 

“There’s only so much I can do for someone I haven’t seen before. You know that,  _ Daredevil _ .”

 

Bullseye’s forever out of place, forever an interloper.

 

“Take as much time as you need. We’ve got plenty.”

 

“Okay,” she sighs, finally turns to Bullseye, “We’re skipping medical history for now. If you’re anything like  _ him,  _ that’ll take all night. What’s wrong?”

 

“Red thinks I’ve got a fever,” he starts, doesn’t like the unamused look on her face, so he carries on, “Probably got one of my cuts infected again. And I’m goin’ into withdrawals.”

 

Red’s face gets all twisted up at that. Like he said something wrong.

 

“Cuts first,” the night nurse says, “We’ll deal with the rest after this.”

 

Bullseye nods, starts undoing Red’s shirt, fingers feeling stiffer than they ought to. Takes a little while, but he shrugs the button up off, leaves him just in his undershirt. The room’s cold, cold enough that his skin breaks out in goosebumps, but that’s not the only reason he wants to wrap his arms around himself.

 

The night nurse looks him up and down, like she can’t figure out what her eyes want to catch on first. Makes him want to curl up, get away from her. Stop being a  _ thing  _ on display.

 

He’s in a mood, feeling mean, “Enjoying the show?”

 

And then she takes one of his wrists; lets his arm go limp as she twists it around to take a better look.

 

“And how did you get these?”

 

“Jumped out a window,” he says, no point in embellishing the truth, “Got thrown out of one, too. That’s how I tore my hands up.”

 

She raises an eyebrow, like she doesn’t quite believe him. Happens a lot when people ask him about cuts, bruises, scars.

 

“Really, I did. Happens a lot these days.”

 

She moves onto his other arm, looking that one over too, “You’ve been good, haven’t you? _He's_ never this careful with his cuts. Nothing’s infected. Which means it’s time for  _ you  _ to tell me what you’ve been on.”

 

“I don’t remember,” he says, digs his nails into his palms, then lets them go slack.

 

The night nurse give him that  _ look  _ again, the one that says she knows that he’s lying. But he’s not, he never is. People just don’t wanna believe him, not that he’s ever given them a reason to.

 

“Really, I don’t, I promise. Fisk took care of my prescriptions and I don’t know what they’re called, doesn’t seem to stick in my head,” he gestures to the scar on the side of his head, “And  _ that  _ didn’t help, already had trouble with my memory before anyone wised up to it being there.”

 

“Oh,” she says, very plain and flat, “You’re Bullseye.”

 

He digs his nails even deeper into the meat of his palms. Better than lashing out. He could kill her without even having to get up off the table, but there’s no reason to it. He’s just fucking angry.

 

Red has his head cocked to the side, “How do you know Bullseye?”

 

Here it comes. He wants to run but there’s nowhere to go, can’t go anywhere without Red stopping him. Hell, that might just make trying to run worth it, gives him another reason to get Red to touch him.

 

“I don’t  _ know  _ him, but everyone’s heard about him. There aren’t many people who’s careers can take a hit like  _ that. _ The injuries seem to match up, plus the withdrawals, but I just never thought he’d look like  _ this _ .”

 

Skin pulled tight over bone, scrawny and twitchy and wild eyed. He’s heard it all before.

 

“City sure loves to talk, don’t it?” He spits, teeth bared, “No goddamn privacy.”

 

“What were you taking?” She changes the subject quickly, all work and no play, “Just describe what it did. We won’t know if it’s anything particularly serious if you don’t have the names, but we can  narrow it down.”

 

“I was takin’ something for my head, settles me down a bit. Makes things easier, ‘cos then I can think. Somethin’ to help with hallucinations, too, and,” he catches himself, doesn’t know what’s safe to say, “Uh, another one, too, helps stop bein’ so caught up in my own head. I’ve been sleeping too much, too. Can’t think straight. Scared, real scared.”

 

Matty raises an eyebrow at that and Bullseye’s not sure if he’d rather be here alone. He might’ve attacked her if it was just him and the night nurse alone in this building. Hates that the only thing people seem to think when they hear his name is that he’s damaged goods, nowadays.

 

“Anything  _ else _ ?” She asks, giving him a serious look; eyes aren’t nearly as piercing as Handsome’s, though.

 

“Fuck you,” he growls, slams a fist against the table, “You think I’m--”

 

“ _ Bullseye,”  _ Red warns and he hates how quickly he settles down after that.

 

Matty’s got him on a tight leash and it makes his skin crawl how much he likes doing things that will make Matty like him.

 

“I just thought… Maybe...”

 

“No,” Bullseye cuts her off, “I’m not on anything else.”

 

“And how often did you take these medications?”

 

“‘Sposed to every day,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “But I forgot. A lot. Days all kind of blend together, I guess.”

 

She taps her pen against her lips, seems like she’s thinking, “It won’t be pleasant, but I think you’ll live. You’d  _ know  _ if they were the type you had to take at the same time every day, trust me on that. I can’t help you with this, though. You have to sweat it out and go see a goddamn psychiatrist. Lord knows you need one.”

 

* * *

He can already tell Red’s gonna say something before he even opens his mouth. He can also already tell that he probably isn’t gonna like whatever Red has to say, which is going to make the walk home borderline unbearable.

 

“You paid off doctors with  _ blood money? _ ”

 

“ _ Fisk  _ paid off doctors with blood money. Always took care of it for me,” Bullseye speaks through gritted teeth, hates admitting how dependent he was on Fisk.

 

“For  _ what?  _ For  _ drugs? _ ”

 

“Psych meds, actually. Which I  _ needed--” _

 

“And didn’t even  _ take!”  _ Red cuts in, “I was in the room with you as you had that conversation, Bullseye!”

 

“ _ Forgot.  _ I  _ forgot  _ to take them. In case you haven’t noticed: I’m  _ not  _ exactly  _ stable.” _

 

“What did you do? Threaten someone to give them to you? Get  _ Fisk  _ to threaten someone?”

 

“Can you just stop yellin’ at me?” He says, digs his fingertips into the skin under his eyes, “Please? I don’t like it when you yell at me.”

 

This isn’t how it works. Isn’t how Bullseye and Daredevil work. Might be how Bullseye and Matty work, maybe, if he’s lucky. But it doesn’t feel like it is.

 

“And now look where it’s gotten you,” Matty carries on like he didn’t even hear, preaching to a non-existent jury.

 

“God! Not everyone can be  _ perfect  _ like you, Matty. Sanctimonious little  _ fuck _ , I don’t know why I even,” he catches himself there, getting dangerously close to looping back around to the argument from before.

 

“Look,” Bullseye sighs, figures he might as well surrender, “I just want to feel good. Grounded. It helps.”

 

Red doesn’t push it past that, which is more than he expected. Would almost make the walk back to the penthouse tolerable if he didn’t feel like shit. But at least nothing’s infected, which is as good of  news as any. And it shouldn’t get any worse than this; he wasn’t even back up to dose before the whole world went sideways.

 

Usually just deals with this alone. Gets caught, thrown into Rikers, left to sober up or die trying. It’s not easy, sure as hell isn’t fun. But he’s used to it. Used to sweating it out, cold from the concrete floor biting down to the bone.

 

He thought it’d be easier with Matty around, someone who might at least play at concern. He’s pissed off now, but it was nice when Matty was just close to him, touching him. He wouldn’t ask for it again, can’t, can’t bring himself to do it.

 

* * *

Elektra’s waiting for them when they get back, kitchen isn’t quite dark yet, but she probably should’ve turned the lights on a while ago. Sitting at the table nursing a mug of something or other. Might be coffee, might be wine.

 

“Hello boys. Enjoy your  _ date _ ?”

 

So it’s wine. And he hates the way his cheeks flush at that, makes him want to smack the mug outta her hands, shove her to the floor, chair and all, go for round two. Can’t get his moods in check, can’t get his head to quiet down. So lost in his own thoughts that it doesn’t even occur to him that he’s just shaking while Elektra watches him.

 

“Bullseye’s going to be fine,” Red says, out of convention.

 

“Oh,  _ joy _ ,” Elektra gives a little cheshire grin, both elbows braced against the table as she leans forward, “You know that he tried to kill me, right?”

 

And then she throws her head back, laughs like she’s possessed.

 

“We’re even, we’re even, it’s fine, she stabbed me for it. Damn near killed me and that makes it even, fair, squared away. Did it before I knew she was with you, I swear, I promise, I do, I really do. You seen the scar too, fuck, no, no, no you haven’t, but it’s there, I promise,” he can’t breathe, just keeps talking in circles.

 

“Relaaaaax,” Elektra waves a hand, “We are  _ celebrating.” _

 

Red doesn’t look happy and he can’t tell who the look on his face is directed at and it’s eating him alive, tearing him up inside. Elektra’s all wrong, never seen her drunk before, can’t seem to figure out why she’s doing this.

 

And she raises up the mug, half smirk playing on her lips, “A toast! To Bullseye’s long and illustrious life.”

 

He’s dead certain neither of those statements are going to apply, all things considered. Odds are she kills him before the year is out.

 

“I’m not doing this,” Matty’s cold and even, heads right past her to the bedroom.

 

Bullseye isn’t too keen on being here either, but he doesn’t want to be anywhere near Red right now and for some ungodly reason, this seems like the better alternative. So he settles down at the table, across from Elektra.

 

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

 

“The bottle is already empty,” she smiles, eyes half lidded, “There are others. Take your pick.”

 

So he does, goes digging through Fisk’s cabinets. Never been too keen on wine, but there’s half a bottle of whiskey, which is more than enough to take the edge off of things. He sits back down at the table, doesn’t even bother with a cup. They’ve got fingerprints on everything already. They’re fucked no matter how you slice it.

 

He takes a long swig from the bottle. Figures being in withdrawals makes him officially off his meds which means getting drunk is just fine. Not that he hasn’t gotten drunk when he’s on them before, but there’s rules and he likes them when he’s lucid enough to follow them.

 

“Matty’s not too happy right now.”

 

Elektra kicks him under the table, “Shush. Stop talking about Matthew.”

 

“Alright,” he takes another drink.

 

“What is it with you, hmmm? Perhaps  _ you  _ are the nagging girlfriend.”

 

He’s not drunk enough for this, but that’s easy to remedy. Been taking it slow so far, but there’s no fucking reason to that. So he knocks back as much as he can before having to come up for air.

 

“You have guts after all,” Elektra laughs again, takes the bottle right out of his hands, “Get me ice. I am not an  _ animal  _ like you.”

 

Must’ve finished off her mug when he wasn’t looking. But he gets up, pleasantly surprised when his legs feel like jelly and his head’s spinning in a nice way, rather than a way that makes him want to get down on the floor and heave. Probably lost his tolerance in jail.

 

He’s even nice enough to get her a glass, sets it down in front of her, “Since you asked so  _ nicely _ , ‘Lektra.”

 

He has to be careful, toeing a fine line between feeling all nice and warm and good inside and getting all weepy-like. Been kicked out of the bar with no name a good couple of times for making a fool of himself. Already cried once in front of Elektra and that’s more than enough to last a lifetime.

 

She pours herself a glass of whiskey and he takes the bottle back and gets right on back to nursing it. Doesn’t particularly want to get wasted, always scares him when he loses time. But he’ll get as close as he can, probably.

 

“We shoulda done this  _ ages  _ ago,” he laughs, ‘cos right about now, everything feels funny, “Shoulda, shoulda done it when we  _ killed  _ him!”

 

“Yes,” Elektra sounds a mite more serious than she oughta, “Yes, we should have.”

 

The night after they killed Fisk was bad, real bad. He can’t remember much of it through the pain, but he remembers being in bed with Red and Elektra, being held so softly. And that was good, only good part about it. Would kill to be there again, really would.

 

But he can’t chase that thought, might get all teary eyed over nothing.

 

Damn near jumps out of his skin when Elektra traces a nail over the back of his hand. Flinches hard but doesn’t quite pull away because she might not like that and he doesn’t know her tells when she’s drunk.

 

“Coward,” she says, smiling all sweet-like.

 

And he’s getting all antsy, stands right up and starts pacing around the table even though his head’s spinning and as much as he likes circles, he still gets dizzy. Keeps his eyes trained on his feet and tries not to let it go to his head.

 

Elektra catches him one of the times around, hand pressed against his sternum. Looking down at him like a hawk. He takes a step backwards, which just gets her to take a step forwards and they carry on like that until he stumbles over his own feet, ends up with the small of his back pressed up against the table.

 

He knows where this is going, doesn’t necessarily mean he likes it, though. Also knows, deep down, he’d prefer it if this was Red.

 

But maybe he can get inside Matty’s head like this, that’s all he’s thinking about while Elektra traces her nails down the side of his face.

 

“I will  _ never  _ get what he sees in you,” she slides up close enough that he can feel her breath.

 

“Could say the same for you.”

 

And then she kisses him, if you could call it that. Tries to shove her tongue down his throat, mashes their teeth together, and he thinks he gets Matty even less than before. She’s so  _ abrasive,  _ always. Can’t get into it because the only thing he wants to think about is Red.

 

It’s curiosity, that’s what this is. Not trying to get back at Red, not trying to get him mad enough that he pins Bullseye down against this stupid fucking table, same way Elektra’s trying to do right now.

 

She starts trying to bend him backwards, getting just a little too into it and finally he puts his hands on her shoulders. Nudges her away without shoving her, might go bad if he does that. He knows well enough that getting drunk makes you skittish and stupid.

 

“Only sleep with women if it’s gonna save my skin,” he says, wipes the spit off his lips with the back of his hand.

 

Elektra leans right in, lips right next to his ear, “I should have known you were a chauvinist.”

 

“Kinda missed the mark on that one.”

 

“Oh?” She looks at him, one eyebrow quirked up, “Really?”

 

“You know damn well what I want. Startin’ to think you knew from the beginning.”

 

She laughs, sharp enough to send a shiver down his spine, still close enough that either of them could do something stupid and rash.

 

“Why'd you do that, then?” He growls, “Trying to get back at  _ Matthew?  _ Figure this makes things even? Think you can just do whatever you want to me and I won't complain?”

 

“You  _ did not _ complain,” Elektra looks him dead in the eyes, kind of devilish grin on her face.

 

“I didn't much like it, either.”

 

“Yes,” she keeps on smiling, like she's  _ trying _ to start a fight, “You would rather I have been Matthew, yes? You want him to crack you open. You want him to get inside you and take you apart piece by  piece until you are so needy and pliable he will never get rid of you.”

 

Feels disgusting and hates himself for how much that gets him riled up, but he's drunk and he's already been thinking about Matty all night long. He's got a nice flush creeping across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, just thinking about Red's hands on him,  _ taking him apart _ in one way or another.

 

“Look at you. You are  _ pathetic. _ ”

 

And then she pulls away. Leaves him sitting on the table, stewing in his thoughts. He could go to bed but he's not sleeping in the kid's room and he figures Matty will know  _ exactly  _ what's going on if he gets in bed with them. Couldn’t bear to be that close to him feeling like  _ this _ , anyway.

 

If the world hadn't ended, he could've gone out and found someone and pretended it was Red. But things are hard now and he's sick and drunk and wouldn't trust himself to go do that. Wouldn't trust anyone who’d want him like this.

 

So he’s dealing with this alone. Used to being alone, and any ideas he got in his head that living with Red like  _ this  _ might be any different were just plain ol’ fashioned wishful thinking. Worst part is, Elektra was right and it’s stirred up an awful lot of shame that mixes with everything else. She just loves fucking with him, loves making him squirm.

 

Slips off to the second, smaller bathroom off the main hallway because he’s got a sense of shame and it’s 6’3 and carries two swords everywhere. He’d up and die if there was any chance she’d know what was going on. It’d be like letting her win, but he isn’t staying up all night just because--

 

No, that’s getting him in a weird headspace. Isn’t gonna be any fun if he keeps thinking about her. Not that this is really gonna be much fun at all, he just couldn’t stand to get into bed with Red in this state.

 

He locks the door, checks it once, twice, again. Braces one arm against the wall, forehead resting against his forearm, got one hand shoved down his pants, eyes shut tight and damn near biting through his lip trying to keep silent as a corpse. Just wants to take care of things, nice and quick and easy, but he’s thinking about Red.

 

Knows what Matty’s bare hands feel like now but he’s still kind of thinking about the gloves. Wouldn’t admit it under the threat of death, but he’s done this before. A good baker’s dozen of times if not more. Always gives him the best payoff, which says something about him that he doesn’t care to dwell on.  And it’s even better now, ‘cos this time he’s wearing Matty’s shirt. Still smells like him, too. 

 

And then he’s done, kind of shaky and breathless and just bracing himself against the wall and hating himself just as much as he did before. Washes his hands in the sink and he doesn’t quite meet his reflection’s eyes. His face is still flushed, bottom lip hasn’t quite split open but it’s swollen and he’s not sure how much of it is from Elektra kissing him.

 

He’s glad Red won’t be able to see that, but he figures Red might already know what happened. Which is why he was so dead set on staying quiet. He’s getting too old for this, might’ve even thought this was fun, sneaking around, trying to not get caught, a couple years back.

 

Doesn’t particularly want to get into bed with Red and Handsome, not after what he’s just done. Never lost the afterglow that fast before he started living with Red. Now he’s just embarrassed and spent and wanting, not like this, but in a different way. The kind of want he  _ can’t  _ just take care of and act like it’s good enough.

 

But he’s in a bad way and he isn’t gonna go for a walk and try and clear his head. Honestly doesn’t know if he’d make it back here. There’s something wrong with him and he knows it, try as he might to ignore it, and he’s feeling worn down and stretched thin.

 

The funny thing is, it even helped. Settled him down a bit, made his head a little bit clearer. He’s not riding cloud nine, which is a disappointment but not a surprise considering how much everything else hurts. But it’s easier to think. And that’s why he knows it’s a bad idea to go out wandering.

 

So he unlocks the bathroom door, slips back out to the hallway. The lights are off in the master bedroom and it doesn’t sound like anyone’s around and he’s so, so tired, like it took a lot out of him. He’s only fucking twenty-four, shouldn’t be this bad off, but he’s also coming down off his meds and trying to heal up sixteen cuts, give or take a few.

 

He stays fully dressed, feels like they’re just bound to know what he did if he strips down. It’s stupid, they’d have no way of telling, but he’d up and die if Elektra figured it out.

 

So he keeps all his clothes on, Red’s shirt included, and gets under the covers even though he doesn’t really want to. He’s starting to feel cold again, doesn’t know how much of it is the fits and starts of winter socking in and how much of it is the withdrawals. 

 

And Red runs his fingers up Bullseye’s spine, starting at the small of his back. Makes him go stock still, heart in his throat. Doesn’t even have an excuse if Matty decides to interrogate him, just gonna have to up and say it and then he’ll know exactly how Bullseye wants him.

 

But Matty doesn’t say anything, just rests his fingers at the nape of Bullseye’s neck, twisting around the choppy tufts of hair there. That wins out, has a better hand than the stone of fear in the pit of his stomach. Gives him the kind of blissed out feeling he was  _ really  _ wanting, eyelids heavy. Matty should’ve just done this, would’ve given up killing ages ago.


	2. part ii

When he finally wakes up, he decides he’s gonna beg Elektra to get him some more clothes. Matty hasn’t said anything about taking his shirts, few as he’s got right now, but it’s bound to happen. And it makes him feel twisted up, unsteady, like he’s doing something wrong, walking around in a button up that doesn’t fit him right and doesn’t smell like him.

 

He wanders out into the hallway, alternating between rubbing at his eyes and kind of hugging himself, trying to keep everything reigned in. He doesn’t feel great, but he’ll feel worse if he sleeps all day and he’s already stopped making himself useful, which makes him taste bile in the back of his throat. For that, Elektra might not even bother doing him this favor.

 

But it’s still worth a try, so he moves from room to room looking for her. Might not even be around, but she’s gotta be hungover if she was drinking before he even got there. And it gives him something to do, gives him a goal.

 

He finds her in the dining room, all the blinds drawn and the lights off. It’s good for him, too, that way, he doesn’t have to think about what happened last night. But there’s still enough light worming its way between the curtains that he can see the severe look scoring her jaw.

 

“Elektra?”

 

There’s a split second flash on her face that kind of looks like fear.

 

He winces when he carries on, acts like that didn’t happen, “Can you get me some clothes? I’ve got nothin’ and I don’t think Matty much likes me stealin’ his.

 

“Matthew took you to see the night nurse, yes?”

 

He’s not really sure what this has to do with anything, but he nods, which just makes Elektra purse her lips, hands clasped tight. He’s said something wrong, probably. Doesn’t know what.

 

“You should be more careful.”

 

Doesn’t sound like she’s chiding him which makes him even more nervous, doesn’t even realize he’s wringing his hands at first, but he is.

 

“I have not told Matthew about… About  _ you.  _ I do not  _ like  _ you, but I will at least afford you that.”

 

“Aw fuck, is this about the kiss?” He scowls, digs his nails into his palms, “We were drunk. It happened. It’s over. Nobody’s gotta tell Matty.”

 

Elektra blinks, once, twice, and laughs, kind of high pitched and frantic, “You are  _ hopeless." _

 

“Fuck you, you’re the one who’s leavin’ shit out.”

 

“You  _ really  _ cannot seem to string together  _ anything  _ resembling a coherent thought as to what I might  _ possibly  _ be talking about?”

 

“I’m not in the mood for games, ‘Lektra,” he scowls, crosses his arms so she can’t wise up to the fact that he’s been clenching his fists the whole conversation.

 

And then she gets all somber, all serious, “You are far from subtle, and that is not always a good thing. Matthew and I, the night nurse, we… We are worth trusting. That is not true of everyone.”

 

He’s fucking tired, doesn’t want to be doing this, especially not after last night, “Jesus, Elektra, are you gonna buy me some damn clothes or not?”

 

“Yes. I suppose I will. But you have to come with me. I will not know if anything will fit without you there.”

 

She’s got a point, but he’s in day old clothes, doesn’t have pants that fit him outside of his suit, and generally feels like hell warmed over. His head hurts real bad, but he just hasn’t been hungover in a while. He can manage, and he’ll get some clothes out of it.

 

But there’s something else, eating at him, “Are any stores even gonna be open?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Elektra furrows her brows, almost looks a little worried, “Most everything is as it was. People have to continue on somehow, people have to wake up and keep living.”

 

“Oh,” he feels stupid, feels like he’s fucked up and she knows it.

 

“Go,” she flicks her hand, gestures for him to leave, “Make yourself presentable. Take Matthew’s clothing if you have to.”

 

He steps to it. Hates that he just obeys when she orders him around, but that’s always how it’s been. He’s always wanted direction, gets antsy without it and that’s not good for anyone. Just makes him get self destructive and someone’s gonna get hurt, usually him.

 

None of Matty’s clothes fit well. They’re made for someone a little taller, little broader, little better fed. But Elektra told him to get dressed, so he’s doing it. Wants things to stay like they are, not quite nice but steady. It’s always easier if he’s not on shaky ground.

 

* * *

He’s stuffing Matty’s slacks into his boots when Elektra finally is ready to leave. She’s got her hair done up in the scarf, gloves up to her elbows, dark sunglasses, can’t even see her eyes behind them. 

 

He’ll let her lead the way, doesn’t really trust that the world isn’t still royally fucked up. It’s been a week, maybe even two, but he can’t believe that everyone could just move  _ past  _ all that. He hasn’t even managed that, still thinks he can see his blood on the carpet and winds up losing half the day chasing that rabbit.

 

There’s even people milling around on the streets, which is what really gets him. Not around Fisk’s building, but that’s all blocked off by barriers so most average people wouldn’t bother trying to get close. They don’t even have to go all that far to find other people, don’t have to go far at all to find cars. Less than usual, but New York’s still going.

 

Elektra stops him outside of a building; body’s moving without his mind and he damn near just keeps on going. He comes back to himself, trying to make sense of where he is, but he hasn’t been here before. Lived in the city a good while, but he’s never really gone all that far outside of his own haunts.

 

It’s a consignment shop, looks pretty unassuming, but there’s an open sign on the door and the sheet of plywood covering what used to be a window has ‘YES! WE’RE STILL OPEN!’ stencilled across it.

 

“Well shit, you were right,” he barely even says it aloud.

 

“Yes, of course,” Elektra pushes the door open, sets off a little bell overhead and the clerk behind the counter looks up from a book.

 

Goes right back to reading as soon as she sees that Elektra’s just walking into the store like she already knows where to go. Bullseye trails after her, hasn’t done this song and dance before. Most of the time, he just takes clothing wherever he can get it; most of Fisk’s apartments came fully furnished, including the wardrobes.

 

“What kind of clothing do you want?”

 

He catches on that, kind of. Doesn’t really know when it comes down to it. He’s always dressing for one part or another but he hasn’t managed to figure out what his part is now.

 

“Doesn’t really matter,” he says, “Anything’s better than this.”

 

“I am  _ not  _ buying you clothing that you do not like so you can refuse to wear it.”

 

He doesn’t know  _ what  _ he likes, but he’s sure as hell not letting Elektra wise up to that. Never really had much of a say in anything.

 

“Alright,” he says, figures she won’t let him get away with an answer like that, “Guess I mostly like black and white.”

 

“Oh, I  _ never  _ would have guessed.”

 

“Why don’t you just pick? Seems like this is your forte, being a trust-fund brat and all.”

 

Elektra’s damn near snarling at him, “So called ‘trust-fund brats’ would  _ not  _ shop at a place like this.”

 

“Okay, okay,” he drops his voice down quiet, he’s rolling over, showing his belly, “Don’t wanna start a fight, okay? You’re paying, it’s your choice.”

 

“You have to choose five items. At least. So I know that you have a spine and do not simply kowtow to everyone who crosses paths with you.”

 

It’s not fair, but that’s the game he has to play.

 

Ends up wandering through the maze of racks, loses track of Elektra somewhere along the way. It’s cramped, claustrophobic, but it somehow manages to scare him less than any store Fisk’s sent him off to.

 

He’s looking at the clothes, too; trying to figure out what things he’d take if they were in someone else’s closet. But there’s more choices than he’s ever been equipped to deal with and this isn’t  _ easy.  _ There’s no right path, no way to be  _ correct.  _ No goal in mind other than finding five things so he can prove to Elektra that he isn’t the kind of person she thinks he is. Gonna be damned hard, because she’s  _ right. _

 

* * *

Bullseye finds his way back to Elektra with his heart in his fucking throat because he’s only got three things. Sturdy black pair of pants; black and white striped shirt, long sleeves to hide the worst of his battle scars; another jacket, close to his old one before the world fell apart. 

 

But it’s back together now, apparently. His jacket’s still missing, and so are his new knives, and so is his  _ cat.  _ But the world’s supposed to be back together.

 

“Ready to try on clothes?” Elektra’s even quieted down a bit.

 

Doesn’t help much, because he’s still just waiting for her to realize he didn’t do exactly as she told him to. But he nods, waits for her to make the first move. Which she does, doesn’t leave it on him. Goes up to the clerk and asks for a fitting room and makes sure to glare at her long enough that she doesn’t even question Elektra following after him.

 

It’s good, though. There’s a smaller space cordoned off by a curtain, means he won’t be changing right in front of her. Doesn’t have to be on display for her; she’s got a keen enough eye to make anyone feel like a  _ thing  _ when she’s picking them apart.

 

He puts on the things he picked out first. Pants could do with a little hemming but the shirt fits just fine and the jacket feels right. He figures Elektra probably wants to see, probably wants to rub his face in the fact that he couldn’t find five things.

 

When he steps out, she’s sitting in the little chair off in the corner. Doesn’t even look up from absentmindedly picking at her nails, gloves resting across her lap, legs crossed.

 

“I found three things,” he says, figures it’ll be easier if he just comes out and says it.

 

“Good for you. That is more than I expected.”

 

But she finally looks up, eyes picking him apart from head to toe.

 

“Not bad,” she finally speaks up, “Sailor stripes are in.”

 

He stays there, shifting from foot to foot. Realizes he’s waiting for her to dismiss him, and he’s pretty sure she’s had that wonderful fucking epiphany too.

 

“You will need more than one outfit, of course,” Elektra says, more of a suggestion than a command and he’s quietly thankful.

 

She’s picked out a lot more for him to try on than he’s ever even considered owning. Hopes she doesn’t expect him to get it all, probably couldn’t cope with that but he couldn’t turn her down either. He just needs to get into a rhythm trying things on, get lost in the repetition of it. Let her decide what she likes and that way he can’t be wrong.

 

Next up is a short sleeve shirt, black, white buttons all the way down, but he leaves the top one undone. Fits pretty nice, too. He’s not entirely sure how she managed to guess it that spot on.

 

He steps back out, tries to put more confidence into it this time because he doesn’t want Elektra to know that she’s the only person he can’t stand staring at him. Most of the time, he just laps the attention up when people stare at him all worried-like.

 

“That  _ is _ cute on you,” Elektra’s looking at him like she’s searching for something, eyes boring into his skin, “You should tuck it in, though. That looks more professional.”

 

“Naw, that’ll make me look like Matty.”

 

“You would look more like a boy scout,” Elektra laughs, “Try on another pair of pants, next. You need those more than anything.”

 

He kicks out of the black pants, sets them aside with his jacket and the striped shirt. Thinks a second or two before taking off the one he’s wearing and adding it to the pile of things he  _ wants.  _ Elektra all but gave him permission to do that.

 

She’s picked him out a set of jeans, which must be entirely for his benefit because he doubts she’d be too keen on jeans herself. They’re loose in the hips, but he can get a belt, can make it work. Pulls on another of her shirts, too. White ringer and he can already tell the neck’s gonna drive him up the wall.

 

But he heads out anyway, just to have Elektra frown at him.

 

“The pants do not fit. No point spending money on them.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, feels strange to be thinking like that, “Guess you’re right.”

 

He doesn’t bother adding the shirt to the pile of things he wants, either.

 

And then he starts rifling through the pile of clothes she’s given him, looking for another pair of pants. Isn’t too keen on most of them; he’s never been one for ironing and most of them have a nice crease down the center.

 

Ends up putting on one of the pairs of dress pants anyways, just so he can say he did it. Which just leaves finding a shirt to match. Isn’t exactly easy because she picked out a lot more casual-wear than he figured she would.

 

Elektra speaks up, voice muffled by the curtain between them but she’s just as unaffected and even as she usually is, “Are you a man?”

 

It’s a question that gets his chest all twisted up, like he could answer it wrong. But he’s caught up in looking through shirts, caught up in the flow of it, the seamlessness of picking something up and  knowing in a split second if it’s right or wrong.

 

Doesn’t even realize he’s answering until he’s gone and opened his mouth, “Suppose so, yeah.”

 

“Do you really not grasp why just letting Matthew take you, specifically, to the night nurse was misguided at best and dangerous at worst? Why there may be an issue with being cavalier and undressing in front of every stranger you meet?”

 

Something’s finally clicking into place, she should’ve just come out and said it, but he thinks he knows what she’s getting at. Pulls on a shirt and comes out to face her, might as well make this as uncomfortable for her as he can.

 

“Well shit, Elektra,” he stands, one hip cocked out, resting against the doorway, “Shoulda just told me that this was about me havin’ tits.”

 

Elektra just sort of sits there and blinks and he’s worried that maybe that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. But she recovers right quick.

 

“I have seen you naked. I hardly think  _ those  _ count.”

 

“Well  _ excuuuuuse  _ me for having a brain tumor. Made everything a little bit screwy.”

 

“Ah,” Elektra says, like something he said just made perfect sense, “It interfered with your pituitary gland.”

 

“It ‘ _ interfered’  _ with a lotta things. Fucked with my thinking and my talking and all but everything else. Docs said it was awful big. Also said it might be why I did the things I did but I  _ know  _ I did ‘em for money.”

 

“People are always looking for answers,” Elektra adds, awful somber-like, seems like she wants to put an end to this.

 

But he doesn’t talk about this much, doesn’t have anyone who’d listen, and he can’t seem to get himself to shut up. Just keeps pouring out of him at once, feels like he’s liable to cry again but he won’t let it get that far, can’t, not in front of Elektra.

 

“Everyone wanted me to die on the table, y’know? Wouldn’t just come out and say it. But they did. Figured I was better dead than alive. Even Matty, ‘cos then it wouldn’t be on his hands,” and he’s shaking again, hands clenched tight to fists, “Everyone hates me.  _ Everyone  _ does, even you and Red.”

 

“You would  _ know  _ if I hated you.”

 

She’s right, he knows she is, but he can’t seem to settle down. Feeling restless and antsy and frozen stock still all at the same time. He needs to break something, or bolt, or drag Handsome into another fight. Needs to destroy something, trying to get away from destroying himself.

 

“It’s a miracle you have made it this long, as an assassin,” Elektra says, smooth and even and he hates how he all but clings to her words, “Your emotions are easy to read and you get so agitated so easily.”

 

“Fuck you. Leave me alone. You just wanted to  _ interrogate  _ me.”

 

“I wanted to  _ talk  _ to you, like actual adults do.”

 

He’s still jittering out of his skin, on the verge of destroying the hem of the shirt, the shirt he doesn’t much want and Elektra hasn’t even paid for. It’s the most he can move, only reason why he’s still here when he’s trying not to bite through his own tongue. Elektra lets out this terrible, exasperated noise, makes him flinch.

 

“You are so  _ childish  _ sometimes! You are  _ so  _ immature and  _ so  _ completely  _ determined  _ to make a scene.”

 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I can’t,” he’s moved past the stray threads on the hem, got his palms pressed against the side of his head, “I can’t do this. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

 

Elektra takes a deep breath, steadies herself, “Listen to me.”

 

“Mmhmm, mmhmm,” he nods, “I’m listening.”

 

“You are going to go back behind that curtain. You are going to sit down. You are going to do  _ whatever  _ it is that you do to make yourself calm down. And then we are going to finish shopping so we can go to a restaurant and wait until Matthew will not know that you were doing  _ this.” _

 

“Okay.”

 

That’s somewhere to start. Can’t even be mad about her telling him what to do because what he really needs right now is direction. 

 

So he goes back into the little changing space, hangs around for a second trying to figure out how to pull the curtain shut, how to do anything other than stand there, stupid and useless.

 

He gets it finally, feels like Elektra's watching him the whole damn time. Doesn't bother stripping off what he's got on, just sits down on the small bench. Pulls his legs up onto the bench, tucks his head between his knees and tries to force himself to breathe. 

 

He used to get real worked up, even worse than this. Fisk hated it, the way he'd just  _ stop _ , which just got him angry, which got him yelling, which got Bullseye more and more stuck. Used to not even be able to think, used to just lock up so tight his joints would go stiff.

 

If he can stop this drowning feeling, if he can settle down and even out, he'll be fine. Breathing is a cycle and that's what he knows. What he's good at. He just has to change the one he's on.

 

It sure as shit feels like Elektra wants to see him like this just about as bad as he wants it, which is to say not at all. But maybe it would be easier if she was talking him through it. Not that she'd do that, especially since he's not sure if he'll be able to get back up and finish what they were doing. Used to put him down for the count for a day or more.

 

But he doesn't have to face her because he's still trying to stop this, all of this, when she pulls back the curtain and rests a hand on his shoulder.

 

“I will buy all of this. You can try the rest of the clothing on at home.”

 

“Nonono, don't do that,” his voice hitches, threatens to crack, “I can do this, please, I won't fuck it up.”

 

“This is not enjoyable for either of us. You need clothes, I have money. We do not have to be here.”

 

He lets out this terrible, whining sound. Hates feeling like he can't do a job right. But Elektra's already gathering up the untouched pile, draping each article over her arm.

 

“Get changed, meet me downstairs.”

 

He starts on it before she's even left. That way she knows he won't just get stuck. And he's standing in front of the mirror, half undressed, when he realizes he didn't tell her that he probably needs a few more undershirts. Got most of the blood out of this one, but it's been cut up something awful and he’s darned it to the point of no return. Patched it right up as soon as he was coherent enough to  do it.

 

But that's not what he has to worry about. All he has to do is get dressed and go downstairs. He puts Matty's things back on. Folds up the shirt and pants he just took off and adds them to the rest of his choices. Elektra left them behind and he holds them tight against himself, arms crossed, as he heads down to meet her.

 

The rest of it is already bagged up; paper, rectangular, looks fancy sitting in the counter. Elektra takes the rest from him, sets them in front of the clerk. Rings them up and he doesn't look at the register, doesn't want to know.

 

She's about to add another bag to the bunch when he wrings his hands and speaks up, voice real small, “Can… can I take the jacket?”

 

“Yeah, of course!”

 

The clerk passes it over to him and he shrugs it on as Elektra starts counting money out. Makes his heart drop, taste of bile creeping up in the back of his throat. He's always had plenty of money, more than he knows what to do with, but he's never been too keen on using it unless he's in a mood. And now Elektra's spending that much on him and he couldn't even do what she told him to.

 

“Ben, dear, get the bags,” her voice snaps him back to reality.

 

He does as he's told, waits till they're out of earshot, “Don't call me that.”

 

“I need something to call you around the more  _ respectable  _ members of society.”

 

“It's not my name,” he whines, sort of swinging the bags as he walks, “You know that.”

 

“Fisk showed me your dossier,” Elektra drops her voice down low, “It raises… Questions. About  _ you _ . In light of…”

 

“Fisk started from scratch when he hired me. Set me up with everything a boy could need to leave a paper trail.”

 

She laughs, “That seems counterintuitive.”

 

“I needed a bank account, needed doctors, needed a place to sleep. I don't think I ever existed on paper. Barely even went to school.”

 

“Did he know?” She's getting all serious again.

 

“Not sure. Doesn't matter, 'cos he's dead and all.”

 

Elektra purses her lips, like she's rolling that around in her head. 

 

If this didn't feel halfway to good, like he's  _ wanted, _ he'd be more than a little annoyed at how much of an interest she's taken in him. Just keeps asking questions that don't much matter, like she knows something he doesn't. But this is nicer than fighting, really is.

 

Elektra pauses for a second, like she’s considering saying something, but she must decide against it because she starts up walking again. Leaves him to try and keep up, like always. Good to know that there aren’t too many things different nowadays.

 

“If you are coming to lunch with me, you have to  _ behave, _ ” she doesn’t bother looking back, just figures he’ll be there, “Which means not making a scene. Or acting guilty and self-deprecating.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, sure, I’ll ‘behave’.”

 

* * *

She leads them to one of the fanciest places he’s ever been. Upscale, chic, wide open windows showing off impeccable little tables with smooth table-cloths like rows of teeth.

 

The kind of place Fisk would take him, when he was good. He’d get dressed up all nice, checked over by one of the assistants, making sure his tie’s straight, shirt’s tucked in just so. Wasn’t allowed to be late. And Fisk’d spend the night talking about raises and bonuses and perks and all the other nitpicky bullshit that Bullseye can’t seem to hang onto for any length of time. 

 

Most of the time, he’d just end up staring at Fisk as he talked and hoping that he wouldn’t ask any questions he expected answers to.

 

Fisk always ordered for him and he never seemed to work up the nerve to eat anything.

 

And Elektra does that  _ thing  _ again, rests a hand on his shoulder. Makes him damn near jump out of his skin, heart jackhammering in his chest. 

 

“We can go back to the apartment, if we need to.”

 

She sounds so concerned, so  _ honest,  _ that it makes him want to put something through one of the windows ‘cos he can’t --won’t… maybe-- hurt her. But that just gets him thinking about blood and glass and how Fisk just threw him, didn’t even care. Wanted to kill him, maybe wanted to do it even before then. Sure didn’t seem to have any qualms about damn near breaking Bullseye’s wrists when  he was angry.

 

And she’s still waiting for an answer. Doesn’t know how long he’s been chasing that line of thought.

 

He shakes his head, tries to clear it, “I’m fine. Stop touchin’ me.”

 

That’s enough for her, which is good because it’s all she’s getting. Maybe she’d want more if she actually liked him, but she doesn’t, which is great news for both of them. Makes this whole damn situation easier.

 

He’s got a part to play, needs to make sure Elektra doesn’t get any more worried than she already is. It makes his skin crawl, thinking she might  _ pity  _ him.

 

* * *

Must’ve followed her inside, because now they’re sitting at a table. Elektra digs the toe of her shoe into his shin and he realizes he’s twirling his fork between his fingers.

 

“I am not  _ mocking _ you,” she says, voice conspiratorial, “If you need to leave, we can.”

 

“I'm fine, I'm fine.”

 

And then she goes in for the kill, “ _ Matthew _ has to leave sometimes.”

 

“Really, I can do this, ‘s just,” he gestures with the fork, smooth circle cutting through the air, “Deja vu.”

 

Elektra raises her eyebrow in that little way that always seems to mean 'oh? do go on’.

 

“Fisk used to take me to places like this. 'Sposed to be a reward, but I never could nail down the rules. Just supposed to sit there and look pretty, I guess. Made me feel like a girl for hire.”

 

Elektra wrinkles her nose, kind of scowls, “How did you work for him for  _ five years _ ?”

 

“Paid better than anyone else. Took care of me, kinda,” he sets the fork down, wants her to calm down a mite.

 

“You have a strange definition of care.”

 

That goes right for the heart. Shuts him up real quick. She's right; there's a reason why he always ends up itching for someone to hurt him. So he throws himself into trying to read  _ anything  _ on the menu.

 

The waiter saunters up not too long after, “Can I start you two off with one of our house wines?”

 

Elektra looks like she's actually considering it, but he can't abide by that.

 

“Little early for that, isn't it?”

 

Elektra glares at him, “I am paying for this so  _ I  _ should be able to--”

 

“I'm well aware you're payin’ but that doesn't make it a good idea.”

 

“I can come back in a few minutes, I'll let you two figure this out,” the waiter ducks out, doesn't break character once.

 

And Elektra clenches her fists, lets them loose again, like she'd rather be throttling him. Which is why he did it, he supposes.

 

He leans over the table, gets right close to her, “Let's play a game. We're talking over divorce papers. You're an alcoholic but I don't come out an’ say it. You're bleeding me dry, but I don't much care.”

 

“What, exactly, is the point of this?”

 

“Gets everyone lookin’ at you. Makes 'em easy targets when they're distracted.”

 

“You said you would  _ behave _ ,” Elektra gives him a serious look.

 

“Do you wanna do it or not?”

 

“No. We are not here to play  _ games _ .”

 

The truth is, he does this more often than he ought to. Can't make it through a situation if he's being Bullseye, so he slips into being someone. Doesn't get all the way lost in it, though. He's Bullseye and he's not; he's wearing a mask and he's not.

 

That's easy to admit. It's hard to admit that he can't get through this lunch if he's  _ just _ being Bullseye.

 

“Are you going to be ready to order?”

 

There's a softness to Elektra's voice that says she's actually interested in an answer, maybe even concerned. It's enough to make him consider answering honestly.

 

“I… dunno what I like to eat,” he says, kind of small and shameful and like he doesn't really want her to hear.

 

“I thought you were better at lying,” Elektra has this half smile on her face, chin resting on the back of her hand.

 

“I’m  _ not  _ lying. Fisk always ordered for me, didn’t ever really go  _ out,  _ didn’t have much when I was a kid, or a thief, don’t always have money on hand, either, and I’ve been in and out of prison so many  times, where they’re awful keen on keeping me on a fucking liquid diet, and they have the fuckin’  _ audacity  _ to call  _ me  _ the bad guy?” 

 

He’s getting worked up, needs to take a step back, takes a deep breath and tries to compose himself, “I know how to make eggs and sandwiches and I can find my way around a recipe now and again. But it’s a good day when I make it to two meals.”

 

Elektra reaches across the table, lays one gloved hand against his and squeezes tight enough that he knows she’s serious, not exactly a comfort so much as a show of force, “Do you want me to order something for you?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 

It feels like he lost, gave up and gave in, let her win. But it’ll be easier this way.

 

He shakes her hand away, gets up from the table because if he doesn’t get away, even for a second, he’s going to lose it. Someone’s going to get hurt.

 

“I’m goin’ out,” he says, out of courtesy, “For a smoke.”

 

“For a  _ smoke?” _

 

“Yeah. I said what I said, no point repeating it.”

 

She caught him in a lie. He doesn’t have any smokes, hasn’t for a good while. They get to Matty real bad and he doesn’t want any excuse for Red to shove him away that isn’t coming right out and saying ‘ _ I don’t want you’ _ .

 

That’s why he’s been oh so very good lately. Hasn’t even hurt anyone in weeks.

 

* * *

 

 

He ends up wandering around the block until his hands stop shaking and he stops feeling like he needs to break something. It’s a temporary fix and he knows it, but it’s enough to get him through lunch. So he slips back in and sits down across from Elektra without a word.

 

“I am  _ not  _ trying to torture you,” she speaks all coolly even, doesn’t seem to mind that he can’t look her in the eye, “I meant for this to be enjoyable.”

 

“Well it’s  _ not. _ ”

 

“I ordered you the alfredo. No meat, as I was not sure what you would like. While rich, it is rather bland.”

 

“Thanks, Elektra.”

 

They slip into a kind of silence after that. Not as suffocating as it could be, what with all the people in here with them. But he’s not talking and he’s not looking at Elektra and he’s just smoothing his thumb over the third button from the top of his new jacket. Round and round, same way he used to wear them down until they were completely flat, featureless.

 

Somewhere along the way, the waiter brings out their food. Sets it down right in front of each of them and Bullseye thanks him kind of mindlessly before picking up a fork like he isn’t sure what to do with it. And then he figures he oughta at least put on a show, so he starts twirling noodles around his fork and hopes that’s good enough for Elektra.

 

She’s got something like salmon on top of a platter of rice and vegetables. Picking it apart with a fork and knife quite dutifully, never lets her elbows rest against the table. She looks like she’s enjoying it, enjoying  _ this _ and maybe she wasn’t lying when she said she didn’t want to make him suffer.

 

So he finally takes a bite, kind of apprehensive about it. Might just be the fact that he wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t eat much, but it’s  _ good.  _ Real good, might even be twenty-bucks-a-pop good. Which makes this less of a show and more of him actually being hungry.

 

“I trust you are feeling better already?” Elektra keeps flashing that knowing half smile at him from across the table.

 

He can’t pin her down, might be genuine but that’s harder to take than if she was really just trying to get under his skin. Something about her actually trying to be civil gets him feeling a certain sort of way and he doesn’t like it one bit. Might be trying to make up for last night, might be trying to get him to shut up, not that he’d tell Matty in the first place.

 

“Yeah,” he admits, isn’t happy about it though, “I am.”

 

“Good, good. There is nothing enjoyable about being at each other’s throats constantly.”

 

That leaves him slack-jawed. Always figured she got off on making him squirm, trying to start fights. Usually he’s the one who’s starting them, though. But she’s always three steps ahead of everyone else and trying to bend them to her will.

 

“You have been  _ so  _ upset as of late. What  _ ever  _ is the matter?”

 

That gets his blood boiling. Like she doesn’t fucking know already. Like she can’t be bothered to pay him any mind and figure out a thing or two. But it’s partially his fault, sure isn’t keen on talking about anything unless he’s under the threat of death. And he doesn’t really have anyone who’d care to listen to his troubles.

 

“Well, for one, I’m  _ not  _ healin’, still got bruises and cuts and everything hurts. And I’m comin’ down off my meds before I even got all the way back  _ on  _ them,” Doesn’t want to start spilling his guts, but he can’t seem to stop himself, “And neither of you seem to care much about tryin’ to get out of there before anyone finds us and I just  _ cannot  _ take living in that  _ fucking  _ apartment. Every day I’m tryin’ to talk myself off the goddamn ledge.”

 

“You could have said this,” Elektra gets all soft and quiet, “Instead of starting an argument.”

 

But that would involve up and admitting something he didn’t even want to tell her in the first place. Whole conversation makes his fucking skin crawl.

 

“Don’t need you to  _ pity  _ me, Elektra.”

 

“That’s not what this is,” she bites back, lips pulled back in a kind of snarl.

 

“Good, then. Don’t want you to start thinkin’ we’re friends.”

 

“No, we would not want that,” Elektra nods along, “But Matthew would be sad if you were to kill yourself.”

 

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ kill myself.”

 

Elektra worries at her lip, watching him like a hawk, “That may not have been the best joke to make.”

 

“No shit.”

 

“I  _ apologize.” _

 

“No, fuck you, that’s not  _ enough.  _ I’m fucked up and crazy and unstable but I’m  _ not  _ that easy to get rid of. Less likely to do it than you or Matty.”

 

“Bullseye,” Elektra warns, low under her breath, “Do not make a scene.”

 

“Maybe I wanna make a scene? Huh? You ever thought about that?” He’s raising his voice, but he doesn’t really mean it, doesn’t like attention when he isn’t in control, “Maybe it’s better than you making me go back to that fucking penthouse, gives me something to do other than think about  _ him  _ all fucking day long. How he got me to bend over backwards for him, how he got me so goddamn dependent on him, how he probably liked me broken.” 

 

Elektra’s looking at him. Well, a  _ lot  _ of people are probably looking at him right about now, try as he might to reign it in. But Elektra’s the most significant of the bunch; makes it even harder for him to shut up, because maybe then he’ll win at this. He’ll be the one who’s more fucked up, had the worse life, and he’ll win.

 

“I did  _ everything  _ he asked. And he took  _ care  _ of me,” his voice hitches, barely makes it through the sentence, “I was his  _ best, _ his  _ favorite.  _ And you had to ruin it. Now it’s all  _ ruined.” _

 

“You know that is not true,” Elektra cuts him off, nice and soft and even, “ _ You _ did this. And Wilson Fisk did not care about  _ anyone.” _

 

He knows that’s true, somewhere deep down inside. But he won’t let that voice get a word in edgewise because if Fisk didn’t care about him, then  _ everything  _ Bullseye did for hijm was completely fucking pointless.

 

“He never got to  _ you.  _ Not how he got to me. Didn’t like the way I dressed, so I changed it. Didn’t like the way I presented myself as a ‘professional’, so I changed it. Didn’t like the way I talked, so I  _ fucking  _ changed it.”

 

“Bullseye,” Elektra whispers, “You are in the middle of a restaurant.”

 

“I  _ know  _ that,” he spits, feels his nails digging into his palms.

 

“You are in the middle of scores of civilians,” Elektra continues, “You are only seconds away from being armed. And you are standing up. Did you  _ know  _ that as well?”

 

He didn’t know he was standing up. Must’ve gotten lost somewhere in his head on his way to the present situation. But he won’t admit that to Elektra, just settles back down in his chair and folds his hands in his lap all polite-like.

 

“Elektra?” He’s quiet when he asks, doesn’t think she’ll give him the time of day after this outburst.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Can you get me a job?”

 

She purses her lips for a few seconds, like she’s sizing him up. Just wants something to take the edge off, something to get him out of the house and thinking about anything other than living in Fisk’s goddamn penthouse.

 

“You  _ know _ Matthew would not be happy about that.”

 

“Please? Just an easy one, nothing too much time or effort or anything. I can’t settle down, ‘Lektra, can’t think.”

 

“I do not think a job is what you need,” she keeps her hands folded, fingers steepled, all but ignoring her food now.

 

“Fuck you, what do  _ you _ think you know about  _ me _ anyway?

 

“I think that you are in pain and unstable and that is a dangerous combination for a job like this. You want  _ someone _ ,  _ anyone _ to hurt you because Matthew will not. Not anymore.”

 

She doesn't know a goddamn thing about him. Something he'll keep tucked in his back pocket because that means there's something about him she hasn't managed to touch. Matty's hurting him every goddamn day, just doing it with words now, cutting him down to the fucking bone.

 

“Please? I'll be good, I'll be careful. You know me, you know I'm careful,” he's curling his fists in the front of his jacket, fingers moving over the buttons, “I've made it this far, I've been worse off than this, I'm always careful. I always get back on my feet.”

 

“No,” Elektra’s firm enough that he isn’t gonna push it, “You are not taking on any jobs until you are stable.”

 

“Well fuck, might as well just tell me to retire.”

 

“We both know that is  _ not  _ what I meant. Your recent outbursts have been… Uncharacteristic to say the least and you are far more fragile than usual.”

 

“I’m telling you this already,” he gives her as serious of a look as he can muster, “I’m not gettin’ stable until we get out of that apartment.”

 

Elektra sighs, kind of sad-like, kind of tired, “Matthew and I are  _ going  _ to look for another place. Give it time.”

 

“You’re not going  _ fast  _ enough, please, please, just find anywhere for us to go,” he’s given up on trying to be serious.

 

“It is  _ not  _ easy to find a place that could fit three people in New York, much less while the city is recovering.”

 

He hates to admit how much that tears him up inside, how much that  _ hurts.  _ He’ll hold on, he knows he will, but it’s gonna be agony and everyone will end up pissed off at him again if he keeps on asking when they’re gonna find another place. He’s worn down Elektra’s patience and that’s a dangerous situation to be in.

 

“You do not need to  _ cry, _ ” Elektra adds, all soft and private between the two of them.

 

He’s not crying. At least he doesn’t think he is, but he’s not entirely sure these days. 

 

Been real moody lately, and he’d like to blame it on the fact that he’s not on any of his meds, but it’s not like he took them regularly in the first place. Feels like the whole world’s been falling apart. And it’s still eating at him that everyone seems to just think life’s gone back to the same way it was before. Nothing’s the same anymore, it all feels different. All feels wrong. Like he woke up in a dream and  now he’s stuck.

 

It’s a kind of wrongness that hangs over everything. In his clothes, on his skin, in every movement he tries to make. Doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel whole, unless he’s with Red and Handsome. Like they’re the only ones still in touch with the real world.

 

Dangerous path to go down, that one. But it’s easier than saying he’s the one who’s wrong, he’s the one who’s changed, the one who doesn’t fit anymore.

 

* * *

He doesn’t remember Elektra paying for lunch, or when they left. But it must’ve happened because they’re walking home and he’s got the bags from the consignment shop and they’re talking about  _ something,  _ but he can’t for the life of him remember what.

 

“It’s nice to know that you  _ can  _ be civilized,” Elektra laughs, flashing her eyes over the top of her sunglasses, “And here I thought you were completely without class.”

 

Bullseye shakes his head real quick, figures he oughta just fold, “What were we talkin’ about, again?”

 

And her whole posture changes in an instant, gets all serious and tense, “And you are asking this  _ why _ , exactly?”

 

“Spaced for a sec there. Lost track of it.”

 

“Art. You were talking about art. I never would have pegged you for someone who knew so much about the Baroque masters.”

 

That makes sense; art’s easy for him. Each brushstroke has an intention to it and he can see it all. Just has to keep himself from thinking too hard about the fact that he’s not getting the whole picture what with the colors and all. 

 

“Used to forge art, did I tell you that?”

 

“Yes,” Elektra frowns, worries at her lip, “Yes you did.”

 

“I’ll be honest,” he runs his hands over the hem of his jacket, looking for stray threads, “I checked out all the way back in the restaurant, about when you told me not to cry.”

 

“That was around fifteen minutes ago,” Elektra says very evenly, “Does this happen often?”

 

“No.  _ Sometimes _ . Depends.”

 

It feels like a weakness to admit that, but he figures they've gotta be at least partway honest if this is gonna work. If they aren't gonna throttle each other first chance they get.

 

“Hasn't happened  _ lately,  _ 'cept when Fisk drugged us,” he adds, doesn't need to give her another reason to keep him away from jobs, “Happens when I'm antsy, can't reign myself in.”

 

“Interesting.”

 

It's all she has to say, isn't making any digs at him which is almost worse in a way. Doesn't know what she's really thinking, how she might use this in her benefit.

 

“Don't tell Matty, he'll go straight for the worst case scenario and won't believe me if I tell him I don't usually kill people when I get like that.”

 

“Hurry up now, Matthew will be wondering where we have spent the whole day,” Elektra leaves it at that, doesn’t make any promises but she seems to be good at keeping secrets.

 

Bullseye almost hates how much he wants Red to trust him, but it seems to be a thing he has in common with Elektra. So he keeps on walking, doesn’t want Matty to worry too much about them.

 

* * *

They’re closer to the apartment than he thought; soon as they get upstairs, he drops the bags at the threshold and tries to settle down and  _ breathe.  _ Counting sidewalk panels was enough to get him back in his own body, but it came along with this absolute bone-tiredness. Feels like he’s been in a fight, but he’d remember that, he really would. Or there’d be something to let him know, some new bruise or cut or blood in his mouth.

 

But there isn’t, he just hurts. Feels all twisted up and tense and listless all at once. Feels like there are bruises under his skin, just haven’t had the sense to rise up yet. Phantom imprints of hands across his ribs, his back, but they’re not from any  _ person. _

 

“What’s wrong with Bullseye?” Matty asks.

 

Asks  _ Elektra _ , doesn’t ask him. 

 

And Elektra looks at him, worrying at her lip, but she doesn’t say anything.

 

“Been a long day,” he chokes out, lying through his teeth, “Probably overexerted things.”

 

“You sound  _ bad,”  _ Matty’s voice kind of hitches at that, “Like there’s something  _ wrong.” _

 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it much. Gonna sleep it off.”

 

Matty eases up a bit, seems a mite less concerned, “That sounds like a good idea.”

 

When he leaves the room, he can hear Red and Elektra slip back into a conversation, like they’ve already been at it. Which is something he  _ missed.  _ Might not be as back in the moment as he thinks he is, might still be lost.

 

Matty’s nitpicky about keeping things clean, ‘specially the sheets, but Bullseye can’t seem to make himself do anything about it. He ends up in bed, still fully dressed, still in the new jacket, curled up tight as he can like maybe this will all be kinder if he really leans into the full body ache instead of trying to run away. Feels like he’s being buried.

 

He couldn’t sleep like this, much as he might want to. But he can lie here and have an excuse for no one to try and fucking interrogate him or chastise him or anything else.

 

Worst part is, he’s just lying there, angry and aimless and not able to pin down a thought for more than a few seconds until Red and Elektra turn in for the night. That’s what finally gets him to settle down, to stop trying to catch anything running through his head.

 

Red’s not even touching him, but being close is enough to get Bullseye to uncoil somewhat. Whole body feels stiff, sort of far away and foreign, and he thinks he might’ve been talking to himself but Red would’ve said something if he was.

 

It’s easy to sync up to Red’s breathing, always breathes through his mouth ‘cos his nose probably got busted and didn’t heal right. And that’s something to keep him busy, listening to the background static of Matty and Elektra. He’s not sure how he ever managed living all on his lonesome before, but that’s a dangerous state of mind to bet all his chips on.

 

* * *

He’s alone a lot, these days. But Red’s made good on his promise and is looking for places. Gives him curt little updates, out of courtesy. Usually nothing much, but sometimes Elektra writes down dates and times of showings, when they’ll be out. It’s not much, but it’s something.

 

There’s not really anything left he can do with Fisk’s business, especially considering the fact that word on the street says the feds are coming in to investigate Fisk’s death. The NYPD hasn’t recovered  yet, got the Avengers on loan and the skeleton crew that’s still hanging around after the war. It was a bloodbath, even if he didn’t intend it to be. Probably lost him some points with Red.

 

But the rumor is, the feds are coming ‘cos there’s not enough manpower to investigate and there’s been enough dirt dug up to know that Fisk had a lot of pigs on retainer. Takes an awful lot of red tape and bureaucracy to get someone to come out in the flesh, but they’re still living in a crime scene.

 

That’s the major reason why Red’s finally taking his pleas to heart, but it still feels good knowing he’ll be out of the fucking penthouse soon enough. Especially what with how rough the last few days have been; came down with a fucking cold of all things because his nerves are shot and he’s so stressed he can barely eat. Hasn’t been too wintery since that  _ first  _ night, but he’s still managed to go and get himself sick.

 

It felt good for a while, knowing he managed to get Red  _ and  _ Elektra doting over him, as much as they’re capable of doting. But now it’s reached a point where they’re getting genuinely concerned and he doesn’t know how exactly to explain that he’s used to this. Bounces back from anything unless he gets sick and then he’s down for the count for a month if he’s lucky.

 

Figures he must’ve been a sickly child, if he could remember much of anything from that time. Doesn’t want to go down that path, though, so he never brings it up, not even when Red’s sitting bedside and asking him oh so gently if he’s ever considered that this might not be normal or healthy.

 

He’s not quite ready to admit that these soft little moments have him so scared. That he’d almost rather take things going back to the way they were. Not conversations he wants to have with himself, much less Red or Elektra.

 

But he barely even has to trick himself into just liking it, just forgetting about all that other bullshit. ‘Cos he really  _ does  _ want to like it and  _ only  _ like it, and it’s as if he just gets caught up in Red whenever he’s near. Maybe Handsome was right, like she sure has a tendency to be.

 

That can wait, though. All of it can wait. Right now, he just has to get better so they can fucking move.

 

He keeps the curtains open whenever he can because looking at the windows is better than being in the dark, feels a mite too close to an awful lot of memories that get his skin crawling. Rikers, the trailer, hospitals where he's handcuffed to the bed.

 

Staying still, having nothing to do, doesn't feel like as much of a luxury as people make it out to be. It's killing him, really is. Can't live like this, never learned how.

 

But he just keeps clinging onto every time Matty comes home and tells him that a place looks promising. And the last few times have all been about the same place. They're going through the paperwork, making it all neat and tidy and legal. Elektra's covering the money, left out where a big chunk of the cash came from, but it looks like they've got a place to go.

 

Elektra comes to him privately, tells him she bribed the agent, gonna let them move in as soon as possible, but Matty doesn't know about that. It's their dirty little secret.

 

They don't really have anything to pack up, but once he's feeling good enough to get out of bed, he picks his way through the penthouse, collecting anything of theirs. Pockets a few more of Fisk's trinkets in the process, but what he's most concerned with is evidence.

 

He's used to the song and dance of prison, but he knows Elektra and Red would never want him back if he got them locked up. Then he'd be fucked, wouldn't have a place to go. The city'd be fucked too, but he doesn't much care about that.

 

So he's careful. Keeps himself busy scrubbing everything down with bleach, snaking Elektra's hair out of the bathroom drains, pulls off the sheets off the bed and leaves them in the bathtub soaking in lye soap.

 

He knows how to do careful. Knows how to make it seem like he's never been in a place. That's easy.

 

He folds all their clothes, manages to fit them into the bags from the consignment shop. Breakables wrapped in between the layers, keeps the kitchen knives for himself. Feels like they're getting ready  to run, which they are, in a way.

 

He's got a lot more time to prepare now than he did when he… Well. It's not like he had too much that was actually  _ his  _ and he was oh so scared and it only took a day or two for the body to stop looking like dad and more like something  _ empty. _ Not to mention the smell, and the way his hands went purple and swollen.

 

But there isn't a body here. Fisk's body was on the sidewalk and then it was gone and all that's left is the bloodstain.

 

He doesn't like going down that path, so he doesn't think too hard about the situation. Focuses on how it's nice to get his thoughts in order.

 

* * *

 

 

He's almost done cleaning the apartment from top to bottom-- not the first time, no, that was done days ago-- when Red comes home with keys. Keys to the new place, theirs. Knows his name isn't on the lease but he doesn't much mind. It's still  _ theirs _ by virtue of no one cutting and running on him.

 

They head on over once it's good and dark. Might be a curfew still, might not; either way, there's no one on the streets. And it's easy to tell himself that this is fine, normal even. They're moving all slow and casual-like.

 

"There's only one bedroom," Matty almost sounds apologetic.

 

"It's not as if that seems to be a  _ problem _ ," Elektra grits her teeth, "Bullseye always finds his way into our bed regardless."

 

On some level, he knows that if she wanted to, she could put a stop to it and she hasn't, but it still stings. Isn't enough to bring him down, though. He's consumed by this faint, giddy feeling, like he can finally breathe deeply enough to fill his lungs. Red even gave him a key.

 

The apartment's on a side of town Bullseye actually knows, which is nice. Makes this feel more like something that fits into his life. And he knows this is real because it would be so much better than this if he was dreaming.

 

Keeps on telling himself it’s real, and it’s easier to convince him that’s an objective truth because the apartment is far from perfect. Smells like mildew, cracks in the walls and nicotine stains on the ceiling. But it’s somewhere that isn’t Fisk’s penthouse and that’s enough. Gets him excited just thinking about it.


	3. part iii

He's on day three of riding this upswing, which really isn't good. He  _ knows  _ that, but he's just glad that he's got something to keep him busy. It’s more of a project than a home and he’s oh so very thankful for that. Hasn't slept much, though. Just a few cat naps here and there.

 

They're all but settled into the new apartment. Awfully small, this one is, and he really got no say in it because Matty and Elektra were playing at being a new couple looking for something affordable and comfortable, something to feel like a home again after the world went to shit. Might even be that, for two people.

 

Feels like they're trying to force him out, like he's not supposed to be here. But he's stubborn and won't leave til someone gets the balls to tell him he's gotta go. Can’t shake that nagging voice from the back of his mind even though he’s got a key, wears it around his neck like a fucking locket ‘cos he’s scared to death to lose it.

 

He's lost, trying to find his way back to a routine. Matty and Elektra take to this new status quo like ducks to water but he's fucking drowning. 

 

He thinks they're still the Kingpin, but he doesn't really know. Can't seem to get his head screwed on right. Spent too much time in recovery and now he's got no idea what's happening. Like he’s fallen right out of reality.

 

There's a lot of tension in the apartment, just waiting for it to snap. It's gonna be bad, the way this quiet anger's winding up. Most days, Matty and Elektra aren't even home longer than it takes to sleep.

 

He'd go out too, but he's got no idea where he'd go. Gave up his fucking job for Matty and the few times he does anything even resembling it, he's deferring to Elektra and not getting paid. Really needs some direction or he's gonna keep spinning out.

 

Right now, the best he's got is cleaning the place. He's been going over each spot a good couple of times, wants to make sure it's perfect but he's also reluctant to admit that he's done. It's become almost obsessive and whenever anyone's home, they try to ignore him.

 

It's getting bad, though. He has to admit that. Damn near scalded his hands a few times and he's got new blisters already on their way to being new callouses.

 

What it's really coming down to is simple: he's scared they're gonna ask him to go. They've been talking a lot; conversations he's not invited to.

 

Figures he's making himself useful like this.

 

He likes being useful. Makes it harder to just cut him loose. Makes it feel like it's the same thing as being needed.

 

Each night, he figures it's gonna be  _ the  _ night, they're finally gonna tell him to leave. It's not exactly reasonable, because Elektra would just force him out if she really wanted him gone, but he can't stop it now.

 

Can't cook much of anything but he still makes dinner each night because maybe it'll be the thing that really counts, makes them want to keep him around. Feels a little too close to deja vu for comfort and he knows exactly how that ended last time. But it'll be different this time. He wants to be here, isn't just trying to make life livable.

 

Matty and Elektra are usually home at the same time, happens often enough that he's antsy when they're late. Doesn't think they'd just leave him, though, because this apartment ate up most of the money they have left between them. He's used to starting at zero every time he gets out of prison, but Elektra and Red aren't.

 

But the fear is what makes him sit at the table, drumming his fingers against the particle board, checking and rechecking each place setting.

 

The set of dishes they have has more plates chipped than intact and as soon as they have money, he's smashing them all and buying a new set. It's driving him up the wall, makes his fucking skin crawl.

 

He almost cracks one when the door opens. Doesn't want to look too desperate, and it's a small blessing that the dining area is in the front room. It's all farce anyway, Matty can probably sense how fucking wired he is.

 

“How was your day?” He can't even wait for an answer, “I made dinner, it's ready, I've been waiting.”

 

Elektra gives him a look that makes him squirm. Doesn't quite look mean which just makes it worse. So he retreats to the cramped kitchen, taking a second to hold onto the counter so tight his knuckles go white.

 

Then he collects himself and heads back out. He can't even remember what he made, can't stop shaking when he serves it. And he doesn't even sit down, just stands by wringing his hands. He hasn't been eating much as of late, and he knows that's part of why he's so bad off but he can't stop carrying on like this.

 

“Are you… okay?” Matty asks, hint of an eyebrow quirked up behind his glasses.

 

“Yeah, yeah, yes, I'm fine, I'm fine, just fine, peachy, even.”

 

And Matty frowns at that, “You sound like you're going to have a heart attack.”

 

“I said I'm  _ fine,”  _ he snarls, words catching on his teeth but he doesn't want to let them know he's angry, that's dangerous.

 

He's pushing it already, the room's silent as the grave and it's making him twitchy.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that, I love you, please don't make me leave, please, I need you,” his voice hitches and he hates it, “Please let me stay, please.”

 

And he's fucked up, too, couldn't keep a handle on things and now Elektra's glaring at him across the table. It's a lie, anyway. Doesn't know why he said it because this isn't love, not even close. He's just frozen in place, thinking he oughta run while he still can.

 

“Bullseye,” Matty has a hand wrapped around his wrist, couldn't run even if he wanted to.

 

“Yes?” 

 

Hates that he can feel tears welling up in his eyes, hates that he'd keep begging if he had to.

 

“Have you been sleeping?” Red’s voice is cool, even.

 

Can't even lie to Matty, “No.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And then he lets go, leaves Bullseye to wipe at his eyes with his sleeve and pretend he can't feel Elektra watching him. Still sits down to eat, makes a point of not looking at anyone, staring at his food with an almost desperate intensity.

 

He's giving up by the time he's pushed everything around into concentric rings. Still does it even though he feels like Elektra's getting the last laugh each time. So he gets up, ready to get the fuck out of there but Red raises a hand, slow and deliberate but it still stops him dead in his tracks.

 

“You're  _ going  _ to sleep.”

 

“I'm not,” he can't help stumbling over his words, “Not a  _ child.” _

 

“Are you sure about that?” Elektra cuts in, always knows how to go right for the heart.

 

“ _Fuck_ _you_.”

 

“Even if you have to sleep in bed  _ with  _ us, you're going to sleep. Honestly, I'd even prefer that. That way, I'd  _ know  _ you weren't getting up to scrub the floors for the fourth time.”

 

“I wouldn't go past three,” he says, barely even sounds like he's trying to defend himself.

 

“You have to know that this isn't hurting anyone other than yourself,” Matty sounds so soft, almost like he's worried.

 

_ “ _ You  _ want  _ me dead,” he snaps, regrets it as soon as he's goddamn said it.

 

He wants another chance, wants to not fuck this up. Always been too angry for his own good, gonna get himself killed one day.

 

Red doesn't stop him when he leaves. Still stays in the apartment because he's got no other place to go, but he can't hide from them too well on account of how small it is.

 

And it hits him. He hasn't slept more than a couple hours at a time since they moved in. Only been a week or so, but the place already looks lived in since they didn't have much of anything to start with and whatever they  _ did  _ have, he's already set up and shifted around and around and around.

 

He hopes the offer's still on the table. Free pass to get away with murder. He's a thief, stealing something they'll never get back and they don't even know it.

 

Couldn't bear to face them with the lights on, so it looks like he's hiding out until they're already comfortable in bed. It's stupid, hiding like this, tucked into the space between the back of the couch and the wall. Waiting for them to move and stewing in his thoughts.

 

He hates. Sprawling and aimless, nothing to point it at. 

 

It's a surrender, but it's gonna clear his head at least a bit if he sleeps. 

 

* * *

Eventually they head off to bed. Leave the lights on, even, but he's kidding himself if he thinks they're doing it as a courtesy. And he waits, gives them a few minutes after hearing the door shut. Pictures them getting ready for the night, stealing kisses between unbuttoning shirts, taking out earrings. Things real people do.

 

He strips out of his clothes in the living room. Doesn't want Elektra to watch him; always feels like she's taking him apart. He's never been much for shame until he met her. Part of why he keeps the undershirt on. He'd like to be pressed up against Matty, skin against skin, but that's dangerous.

 

The bed is much smaller here. He knows that before he even opens the door, making just enough noise that they know he's there. But it doesn't sink in until he's staring at them, tangled up in each other with Elektra's arms wrapped around Matty. It's a clear message;  _ he's mine. _

 

He settles down next to Red, even risks getting under the sheets. Lays on his back, looking up at the ceiling in search of patterns in the stucco. And Matt twists around ‘til he’s lying on his side, rests a hand against Bullseye’s stomach. Makes him tense up, especially when it slides over him until it's resting against his hip bone.

 

He makes himself relax, tries to trick himself into thinking this is okay, this is allowed. And once he's evened out, Matty hooks his fingers around his waist and pulls him closer. He's warm, not quite holding Bullseye against him but pretty damn close.

 

He's crossing some sort of line but Bullseye figures he can get away with it. Elektra doesn't care what Matty does as long as she still has him at the end of the day. It's something they've got in common, as much as it galls him to admit it.

 

And he can feel Matty moving even closer, warm breath on his ear. It's soft, gentler than he ever thought it'd be.

 

“You have to calm down,” Matty says, sharp as a knife, “I won't be able to sleep if your heart's beating out of your chest.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

He curls in on himself, debates leaving but Matty doesn't let go. No, Matty starts rubbing his back, one handed. Keeps the other one wrapped around him. Starts somewhere by his shoulder blades, still covered by the undershirt. If he ever gets to skin, Bullseye might just up and die but what a way to go out.

 

“If it's not helping, I'll stop.”

 

It doesn't feel like a threat, the way he says it, but it might as well be.

 

“No, no, don't, please.”

 

He's never wanted something more, has to try and calm down. Tries to think about anything other than Matty holding onto him but it loops around to the question that always haunts him. Did he do this with Elektra first?

 

Doesn't much like being the stand in but he'll take it. 

 

And Matty squeezes him tighter, like he's trying to force him into evening out. He's close enough now that he can feel Matty's stomach against his back, the brush of Elektra's knuckles against his spine. She's still holding onto him.

 

Feels like Matty's forehead's brushing against the back of his head, hair's just starting to grow back in after hacking it all off again. His thumb rubs over Bullseye's shoulder and he can't bite back a horrible, aching noise.

 

Matty tenses immediately, stops everything he's doing, “What's wrong?”

 

“No one's ever held me like that,” and he's laughing, doesn't know why, “Not in my whole goddamn life.”

 

He's been around a time or two, but that's different. Meeting somewhere nondescript, moving back to someone's place once it gets desperate enough for people to notice, quick and easy and maybe he stays the night but no one ever stays too close after it's over. They know  _ what _ he is or they know who he is and it's never worth touching him.

 

In a way, it'd be easier if he and Matty were just fucking.

 

He's not exactly loose, but the fact they've only kissed, and just once at that, has to be a new record. He’d like more, maybe. Maybe if they were different people. Maybe if he got to talking to Matty in a bar somewhere. But that’s played out so many times already, and it never ends with something like this.

 

“Please, please, can I stay?” He’s still got that nervous hitch to his voice.

 

“You thought…?” Matty sighs, breath warm against his skin, “I  _ want  _ you to sleep. Even if this is how it has to happen. I can’t keep track of you if I kick you out.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He’s not sure what he was expecting. Something like care? Something like love?

 

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Matty says, or maybe he doesn’t; it’s all the same anyway.

 

“Can you just pretend we don’t know each other? Just for one night? So you can hold me like this isn’t some fuckin’ punishment?”

 

Matty goes quiet for a long while, dead weight against him as the seconds drag by.

 

And then he speaks, “I don’t know you. Not really.”

 

“You don’t want to.”

 

“Tell me about yourself,” Matty sounds clinical, probably gonna pick it all apart like the lawyer he is, “Who are you?”

 

“That’s one hell of a loaded question, Matty.”

 

Loaded for different reasons, least of which is the trail of bodies he’s left behind.

 

“I won’t say anything, I promise.”

 

“Well, Benjamin Poindexter was born in an idyllic little town, small enough that nobody’s heard of it but big enough that nobody will know he’s not from there. Birthday says he was born August 27th, 1958, because that’s when…” He shakes his head, doesn’t need Red knowing when he killed his old man, “Not important. Five foot six, but that’s a lie. Blue eyes. Blond hair, when he has it.”

 

“And Bullseye?”

 

That’s even harder, makes him want to get up and leave, but he might never get the chance to be this close to Matty again.

 

He sighs, can’t stop himself from tensing up, “I dunno when I was born. ‘58 sounds about right, though. Got a rough idea of where, but you’ve never heard of it. The small town wasn’t exactly a lie, but it sure wasn’t idyllic. Got the shit beat out of me almost as often as I do now but I didn’t learn how to fight back ‘til I was fourteen. Became a thief. Got bored. Became an extortionist. Fucking sucked at it. Became an assassin. Not the only thing I was ever good at, but the best I ever got paid for being good at something. And now I’m here, with you.”

 

It’s not really an answer. Probably isn’t what Matty’s looking for, either. But it’s the best he can do.

 

“There’s a lot of things missing, you know? But I don’t think I want them back,” he adds, doesn’t want Matty to think he’s lying.

 

He’s trying, trying harder than he’s ever done before, to be honest. Isn’t trying to be good, god no. But he thinks he can manage honest.

 

“That's a start,” Matty says.

 

“I don't know what else you want from me!” He doesn't mean to snap, but it's hard when he's on such shaky ground, “I forge art. I'm partial to Billie Holliday. If life was even a little bit different, I'd probably be an athlete. Half the fucking time I don't even know who I am. Are you  _ happy _ now? Is that  _ good enough _ for you,  _ Matt _ ?”

 

“This is not a conversation that must happen  _ now,”  _ Elektra cuts in.

 

He should've figured she was still awake. She's always listening, but most people don't realize that. But she's wrong. Couldn't have this talk if the lights were on.

 

She digs her fingers into his spine, not quite hard enough to hurt, “You talk too much for someone who has not slept in three days.”

 

“Matty's the one asking questions.”

 

“And you are  _ answering _ .”

 

But it's worked, kept his mind off his nerves and it's harder to keep his eyes open.

 

“Did you mean it?”

 

Must be something important if Matty's asking after Elektra told him off.

 

“Mean what?” His voice is thick with sleep, body heavy and faraway.

 

“Did you mean it when you said you loved me?”

 

“Fuck, I… I don't know.”

 

He says things, sometimes. Anything to keep people happy, anything to save his own skin. But there's  _ something _ here, otherwise he wouldn't be in Matty's bed, heart beating out of his damn chest.

 

“Okay.”

 

And that's that. Matty doesn't let go, or push him away. Things just go quiet, almost too quiet, but he's tired enough that he might actually be able to fall asleep.

 

Elektra laces her hands around Matty's stomach; Bullseye can feel her knuckles against his back, but it's not violent, not forceful. It just  _ is. _ And Matty's holding him tight, almost playing with one of his hands, thumb smoothing over the calluses of his palm. It’s a perfect moment, one he doesn’t want to ever end.

 

* * *

He doesn’t dream, for once. Doesn’t even know when he closed his eyes, but then he’s blinking himself awake in the soft sunlight. He’s laying on his stomach, one of Matty’s arms pinned underneath him, legs tangled together. Matty squeezes reflexively when he stirs, brings Bullseye right up against his side, Matty’s forearm tight across his middle with the fingers resting against his ribs.

 

He twists around until he’s facing Matty. Gets a good view of Elektra resting her head against Matty’s chest, right about where his heart would be. Her hair’s spilling over, covering most of Matty, most of the bed. Even made it to the small space he’s carved out. Matty’s got one hand wrapped around her, too, resting against her back.

 

“Morning,” Matty says, all soft-like, pairs it with kind of a smile.

 

He yawns, still halfway sleep-drunk, “Morning.”

 

Figures now’s the best time to test the waters, so he moves a hand up, slowly. Brings it to a rest at Matty’s jaw, tracing his fingers over the curve of it. Matty’s still smiling, got a little bit of a flush to his cheeks. He wants to kiss Red, wants to feel that little smile against his lips, wants to make sure it’s real.

 

So he shifts the little bit required to fill the gap between them and presses his lips to Matty’s. It’s gentle, chaste. Best way to describe it. And Matty opens his mouth, just a little bit, either a gasp or an invitation. But he’s not gonna risk it, so he pulls back, still face to face.

 

“You’re a lot less…  _ physical _ than Elektra.”

 

It sets everything back into perspective, makes him remember what the situation is. And he grits his teeth, doesn’t even realize he’s got a fist full of Matty’s hair until he feels another hand resting against his own. Must’ve let go of Elektra to do this.

 

“That’s okay,” Matty whispers, “It’s… Nice.”

 

So he lets go, doesn’t want to hurt Matty. Not really, not anymore.

 

“My turn,” Elektra props herself up on her forearms, hint of a smile between her curls before they form a nice little curtain around her and Matty.

 

She dips down, which makes her hair brush across Bullseye’s arm. Looks like she’s kissing her way down Matty’s neck and he gets the sense that maybe he’s not supposed to see this. 

 

He doesn’t want her; this would all be a whole hell of a lot more complicated if he did. He wants her to be here, to even things out, keep everything in working order. It wouldn’t work if she wasn’t here. He knows that for sure. But he doesn’t want her the way he wants Matty. Gets a chill down his spine every time her hair moves against his skin, but Matty keeps running his hands over his side which settles his nerves.

 

Feels good to know that Elektra's not getting all the attention, the way Matty keeps touching him.

 

“ _ Elektra,”  _ there's a little hitch in Matty's voice, “Elektra, I have to go.”

 

Bullseye moves in to take his place again, mouthing at Matty's jaw, “No, you don't.”

 

“Yes. I do. I'm trying to see if I can even get a job anymore so we won't have to live like this forever.”

 

“I have a job,” Bullseye’s damn near begging, doesn't think he'd get this again if Matty leaves, “Just need to put some feelers out and talk to a few--”

 

“You're not killing again.”

 

Elektra meets his eyes and he knows he has to be careful. Matty can't know they're both still gonna be doing this, soon as they get the chance. He just won’t be doing it for money, stupid as that is, and Elektra seems like she’ll be doing it for fun. The only exception to being honest.

 

“Matthew, darling, please?” 

 

Elektra doesn't whine but there's something in her that feels about the same. She's shifting the attention away from him; could probably tell he was getting lost in his own head.

 

“You're both terrible,” Matty laughs.

 

And then he disentangles. Leaves Bullseye and Elektra alone in the little bed. There's no buffer between them and it feels so much more uncomfortable than before.

 

The feeling doesn't last long because she gets up not long after Matty. Damn near always naked, but her hair covers everything and he's not too keen on looking anyway. Hates that she doesn't have any shame because it's all he feels around her. There's something about the way she looks at him, makes him squirm.

 

He settles back down, now that he's the only one in the bed, left to his own devices. He ends up back on his stomach, face buried in the pillow so he can try and go back to sleep. The sunlight filtering in through the window is warm against his back and he's pretty sure this is a pointless exercise, but it's nice. Bed's comfortable, he's tired, and the sheets smell like Matty. It's something he could get  used to, the whole damn thing.

 

The door opens again and he's too caught up in the moment to even tense up. He's probably getting soft, getting too used to this stability. Could be anyone, but it's probably just Elektra. Not that she couldn't fuck him up, might even want him dead after what he did this morning. But she doesn't hurt him, just drums her fingers across his back.

 

“Leave me alone,” he mutters.

 

“No. Sit up.”

 

He groans, turning over and kneading the heel of palms into his eyes. Wasn't enough to make up for the three days he'd been awake. Stretches out a little bit, only for Elektra to try and shove a coffee cup into his hands. He takes the cup, holds it tight while he watches her set down a plate. Simple, cream cheese on toast.

 

She sits down next to him, the gap where Matty slept is still between them, even if the spot's already gone cold. If it wouldn't drive Matty up the wall, he'd be smoking. But the coffee keeps him busy, gives him something to do with his hands. Elektra even made it pretty close to how he likes.

 

“We must talk.”

 

His heart is damn near ready to give up. Already is thinking of the worst; she'll run him out of the apartment, gonna gut him for kissing Matty again, gonna try and put the fear of god in him.

 

“I can kill you, remember that.”

 

It's nothing he doesn't already know, just seems to want to remind him of it. But he's too tired to care much unless she's ready to make good on the threat.

 

He sets the coffee aside, goes for the toast; even speaks around a mouthful of it to really drive her crazy, “Yeah, you've told me that. Can I go back to sleep yet?”

 

“No.”

 

Something's eating at her and he's got a feeling he already knows what it is, but he sure as hell doesn't want to be the one to step up and start the conversation.

 

“Okay, so, just so I know I have this straight: you want to tell me that you can kill me, which you do every week, and then keep me up even though this is the first I've slept in three days?”

 

She sets her jaw, terrible scowl on her face. Not the response she was looking for, and he gets a smug satisfaction out of her reaction.

 

“Oh” he figures he's gonna get punched, which could be what he needs, “Let me guess, you want to talk about this morning?”

 

“Yes,” she spits.

 

So he knows where this needs to go now, doesn't mean he has to make it easy on her. She never makes it easy on him.

 

“Go on?” He takes another bite of toast, “I mean, I'm not the one who wants to have this talk.”

 

“Stop trying to  _ take  _ Matthew.”

 

It's not what he was expecting. Figured she knew that Matty would never leave her, wouldn't even dream of it. Probably tears him up inside just knowing that he's kissed Bullseye, slept in the same bed  as him.

 

“I'm… I'm not?”

 

It's the best he can manage and it's a little better than throwing gasoline on a fire. She's looking at him, knife-sharp glare picking him apart.

 

“I… Okay,” he sets the plate aside, digs his palms into his eyes, “He's not going to  _ leave  _ you. And he probably hates me. Might even figure I'm responsible for his  _ indiscretions.  _ He's yours. I'm ‘the other woman’, so to speak.”

 

“You would not be living here if you were  _ just  _ whetting Matthew's appetite.”

 

That throws him for a loop, leaves him just gawking at her, mouth hanging open, “We haven't  _ fucked. _ ”

 

When it comes down to it, he's not sure Matty would want that, would want  _ him.  _ But she doesn't look convinced.

 

“Really! Before all this, all we did was rough each other up and half the time I was too beat to shit to even care 'bout anything other than licking my wounds. Don't think he even likes me, just figures he can keep me under control like this.”

 

And then she laughs, head thrown back, kind of frantic, “Do you think Matthew does this to anyone other than you? Do you think he lets any of his other enemies into his bed? There is  _ something _ about you, I cannot fathom  _ what _ , but there is something that draws him to you.”

 

Never much occurred to him, but he’s willing to wager that he knows what’s got Handsome so upset. So he puts all his money on it, hopes he’s still got his knack for figuring people out.

 

“I don't want to  _ be  _ you. Don't wanna take your place. I don't need all this, don't need dates and anniversaries and gifts. You can keep all that. Really.”

 

And Elektra looks at him like he’s slapped her across the face, shock and awe and more disbelief than disgust.

 

“Just want him to be close sometimes,” he admits, voice kind of small and thready, “That’s enough.”

 

He can’t get any satisfaction out of the fact that Elektra’s at a loss for words. Usually so careful and articulate, but she’s just sitting there slack-jawed. Means he’s in control of the conversation and there’s nothing he hates more than that. Doesn’t know what’s safe, that way.

 

“Besides,” he says, tries to turn it back to anger because it’s easier like that, “When on  _ earth  _ would we have fucked? When I was half dead trying to recover? When you two are out all hours of the day? When we’re all three in bed together?”

 

_ That  _ gets a flash of anger behind her eyes, like she wouldn’t put it past Matty to do that. But he’s just saying it to rile her up; strange to think a Catholic boy like Red would do something like that.

 

“He  _ hasn’t  _ done that, by the way. Would he do it, though? Fuck, just when I think I have him figured out…”

 

He trails off, realizes Elektra looks like she’s liable to strangle him, which is the last thing he wants to happen. He wants to keep this civil, likes it when they’re actually talking. At least a little bit.

 

He picks back up on something a little less likely to start a fight, “And this  _ hasn't _ been easy for me either.”

 

"Oh? You mean to tell me that going three days without sleep is  _ not  _ considered an easy adjustment?"

 

He left an opening, knows she’d take it and that gives a kind of cold comfort.

 

“Pretty par for the course when it comes to me, actually,” he worries at his lip, gets the distinct feeling he shouldn’t be admitting jack shit, but he is, “What I’m talking about is all up  _ here _ .”

 

He taps one of his fingers against his temple, barely at the start of the scar from his surgery. Waits to see how she’ll react, how bad of an idea this was. He really hasn’t figured out either of them, try as he might; every time he thinks he does, they throw him for a loop.

 

“That seems to be a common occurrence,” Elektra cuts him off, curt and severe, end of conversation whether he likes it or not.

 

And then she stays there, stone-faced, arms crossed and jaw set. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t leave either. Like she’s not too keen on letting him change the subject. And he doesn’t want to start  talking about Matty again, but he’s betting she’ll stay here until he cracks or the man of the house himself gets home.

 

So he grits his teeth and bites the bullet, “Pretty sure he’s thinking about you, when… When he touches me. I’ll be anyone you want me to be, that’s the fucking appeal. Not looks, not personality, not any of that bullshit. But I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t want to be you.”

 

“So  _ this  _ is what it is,” Elektra snarls, kind of biting her way through each word like a vulture picking at flesh, “I have spent  _ weeks  _ attempting to ascertain  _ what  _ it is that Matthew  _ sees  _ in you, what  _ draws  _ him to you. Was I not  _ good  _ enough for him? Was I not  _ desirable  _ enough for him? But it is  _ you! You  _ did this!”

 

“I’m not too keen on being a stand-in for you, either, ‘Lektra. I just,” he can’t meet her eyes, can’t do it, “ _ Fuck _ , I spent five years doin’ everything I  _ could  _ to get his hands on me and now I don’t even have to goad him into it and he’s  _ not hurting me.” _

 

“Well I suppose that makes you  _ quite  _ the low-maintenance lover. And I thought only rich girls were this  _ easy.” _

 

“You don’t have to be a fuckin’ asshole about it. Oughta lodge a complaint with Matty ‘cos it looks like this is all on him. Never sought him out or nothin’, he made the first move. Idle hands and all that.”

 

“Matthew does not  _ wander! _ He has  _ always  _ loved me!” 

 

Somewhere along the way, she wrapped her scarf around her palms, knuckles white from the effort of holding it. Seems like the only thing stopping her from hitting him and he’s acutely aware that he’s never seen her this angry. Composure’s cracking and maybe they’ll finally get somewhere if he can make weather this storm without freezing up.

 

“You think he’s never  _ had  _ anyone else?” Bullseye forces himself to laugh, hollow and grating, playing a part, “Handsome man like that? Hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you in five years? He’d have pick of the litter. Makes good money, kinda man who’ll take care of you.”

 

He doesn’t make a habit of stalking; it’s undignified. Anyone can follow someone, learn their haunts and routines and weak points. But he’s good at making bets and he bets that Matty hasn’t spent all that many nights in an empty bed.

 

“You are so  _ transparent _ ,” Elektra shoots him this wild half-smile, eyes dark, framed by her hair, moved past rage to something else, “Do you really think that he could ever  _ love  _ you? You are a  _ monster.” _

 

“So are you, ‘Lektra. And he knows it. And he loves you oh so very much. So what does that say about me?” He smiles, shit eating grin, figures he’s already fucked.

 

“Do you honestly think you could  _ handle  _ Matthew loving you? You cannot even manage to live like the rest of us. You did not make it a  _ day  _ before you started trying to destroy yourself,” Elektra sneers, still hasn’t come to blows, “You are a pathetic little creature trapped in a cage of your own making.”

 

She says it like it’s something he doesn’t already know. Like he isn’t all too aware that he’s been caught, wrapped around Matty’s little finger. But he likes it here, got the best warden he’s ever had and he’ll never act out so long as things stay the same as they are.

 

“Are we done here?”

 

He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, doesn’t need her fucking permission to get up and go about his day. There isn’t much he can do, though, not without proving her right. She gets the last laugh if he goes back to cleaning and she gets the last laugh if he doesn’t do anything at all and she gets the last fucking laugh if he storms out to go wander until his head clears. He got the final word in the conversation, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a pyrrhic victory.

 

But he’s barely dressed and he’ll have to go back in the bedroom to get to his clothes, so he settles for making breakfast. Something  _ better  _ than the mediocre toast Elektra brought in to bribe him with. That’ll show her.

 

He sets to making omelettes, nice and easy and he doesn’t even have to think as he chops bacon into cubes, whisks eggs in one of the few mixing bowls they have. Even makes enough to give one to Elektra, not that she deserves it.

 

She damn near sneaks up on him, moving in that quiet, unnerving way she always does. Walks her fingers up the back of his neck to see if he’ll flinch and he still ends up dancing for her, just how she wants him to.

 

“Whadda you want?”

 

“ _ I want a truce. _ ”

 

She’s right behind him, wants him to know exactly what she’s up to. He can feel Elektra’s hair brushing up against his back, breath warm against his skin. Sends a shiver down his spine, but he plays at being calm, steady, keeps on doing what he’s doing.

 

Pan’s hot, so he pours the eggs into it, watches them sizzle and tries to ignore the feeling of Elektra looming behind him. She hooks her chin over his shoulder, arms around his waist in this parody of domesticity, nails digging into the soft skin above his hip bones.

 

“What’re the terms?”

 

“Hmm,” Elektra’s feigning ignorance, but he knows damn well she’s already got them lined up, “You can  _ distract  _ Matthew whenever I have more pressing matters to attend to. Only then.”

 

“And the sleeping arrangement?”

 

He likes it, really does. Tries not to let it show when he throws in the bacon, diced onions, cheese. She can’t pick him apart, not as well as Matty can. But he’s gotta be careful.

 

“That continues as it stands. I am not  _ unreasonable.” _

 

“Are you gettin’ back to work? That what this is about?”

 

She doesn’t answer to that, just squeezes him hard enough to know that he’s right. Gonna leave marks, but not deep enough that Matty might feel ‘em and take it the wrong way.

 

“I want in. You said it yourself, I can’t live like this. Not like you and Red can.”

 

“ _ Fine,”  _ she hisses.

 

Bullseye folds the omelette over, gonna have to shake her off to get a plate soon enough, but he’ll wait till the conversation’s over.

 

“Can you get me another suit?”

 

He kept the old one for sentimental value, folded all neat-like underneath the rest of his clothes. Got one drawer for his things in the bedroom dresser, makes him feel like he belongs here. But the suit’s really beyond repair and it’s got too many memories tied to it for him to feel like wearing it.

 

“Yes. You  _ do  _ have an image to maintain, after all.”

 

“Thank you,” he says, makes his intention clear by lifting up the pan and sidestepping until she gets the message.

 

Then he gets a plate, slides the omelette onto it with one hand. Holds it out for Elektra, figures it’ll do as a peace offering. She takes it without even making him turn around and he starts the process over again to make one for himself.

 

“What’s the job?”

 

There’s a few seconds where all he hears is the sound of silverware against ceramic, but it means Elektra’s still there, still listening.

 

Finally, she speaks up, “Matthew has been too…  _ lenient.  _ He is reluctant to accept our role. We need to make sure that select groups know our terms.”

 

“Shit, we’re  _ really  _ doin’ this?”

 

“I thought you were aware of that,” Elektra laughs, “After all, it was you that ensured we did not burn any bridges.”

 

“So,” he folds his omelette over, has an easier time doing this when they’re being civil, “What’re we doing tonight? What’s the job?”

 

“ _ We  _ are not doing anything. You are still sickly and you have not been sleeping and you do not have anything suitable to wear.  _ You  _ will spend the evening keeping Matthew busy and you will be in bed by the time I return or you will not end up with any jobs.”

 

“Jesus, Elektra, Fisk wasn’t half as controlling as  _ you, _ ” he laughs, but it’s not really much of a joke.

 

“Do not act like this is a punishment,” her voice gets all cold, all sharp again, “I know that you  _ want  _ this.”

 

“Anything off limits?”

 

He’s mostly asking to rile her up, isn’t expecting an answer.

 

“I want him unharmed and alive and no evidence of what you have done to him.”

 

She really seems to think this’ll go somewhere. Maybe it will, now that he’s got her blessing. He already got away with this morning, got away with kissing Matty all soft and sweet. Maybe he can get away with this. Kind of gets him all giddy, just thinking about it.

 

“Behave yourself and perhaps we can keep up this arrangement,” she says, like she knows what he’s thinking.

 

He tries to compose himself as he plates his omelette, doesn’t want to sit down across from her while he’s still all flustered thinking about Red. Things have been easier so far, but she’d tear him apart if she realized just how much this situation’s working out in his favor.

 

Takes a seat across from her, hopes his face isn’t flushed, “Y’know what? I like it better when we’re getting along.”

 

“It  _ is  _ preferable.”

 

That’s an admission if he’s ever heard one. Which is strange. She was competition, Fisk liked her more, even fucking replaced him with her. But he’s not jealous now ‘cos Fisk isn’t around to have a favorite that isn’t him and he can’t be worse than her if Matty gives him the time of day. Doesn’t make sense on her end, though, ‘cos he tried to kill her and he’s willing to wager his soul that she’s one to hold grudges.

 

But it seems like she really means it, really wants them to get along. 

 

Red must’ve put her up to it, can’t be something of her own volition. Doesn’t trust it one bit, no, not at all. It has to be a trap or something; she has to be waiting for him to fuck up. Even if that’s not how it feels when they’re sitting at the table together, just trying to eat breakfast.

 

Though he has to admit that they’ve both settled down a bit. Hasn’t been half bad since they went out together that one time, which gets him thinking that maybe they can do this. Maybe they can run this operation on their own while Matty sleeps soundly at night.

 

* * *

He doesn’t go out at all during the day, even if Elektra does, but they’re all back together in time for dinner. He makes it, seems like he’s the only one who knows how to cook in any way, shape, or form. Not too sure what Matty and Elektra have been living on all this time, probably kept on going out to eat together like they were normal lovebirds.

 

Bullseye’s not too good at it, but he knows how to make things last and always keep food on the table, which is what they need these days. No one ever thanks him, but no one ever really complains  either.

 

And they’re all sitting together, not saying a word, not making a sound outside of silverware against plates. Still chipped, still driving him up the wall, but they’re stretched thin and unless Elektra starts getting money from her side gigs, he’s not gonna get to replace them. What he’s really doing is waiting for Elektra to say something. Won’t work out well if she just walks out, means he’ll get absolutely nowhere with Red.

 

Sure is taking her own sweet time, though, and he’s getting the feeling that time’s running out. Makes it hard for him to settle down enough to eat, eyes constantly flicking between her and Matty. Matty, who’s tearing into his food with a dedicated intensity, like it’s the only thing he wants to think about.

 

And then, Elektra sets her fork down next to her plate, carefully wipes at her mouth with her napkin, and stands up.

 

Feels like his heart’s about to beat out of his chest, like she’s gonna leave him high and dry and stuck dealing with Red who’s either angry or worried half to death or both.

 

“I am going out. I  _ will  _ be back. I do  _ not  _ know when.”

 

Red frowns at that, all but stops in his tracks, “Are you taking the sais with you?”

 

It’s a safer question to ask than ‘where are you going?’ or ‘what are you doing?’ but he figures Matty’s known what to ask Elektra and how to do it for a long while.

 

“I am never without them, Matthew. But you need not worry about me, I just need to…  _ clear  _ my head, we are all having trouble adjusting to this.”

 

“Okay, uh,” Matty’s stuck fumbling over his words, always seems to get that way around Elektra, makes Bullseye wonder how he ever made it in a courtroom, “Be safe. I love you. I want you to come back, please, we can talk about whatever this is whenever you’re ready.”

 

“Matthew,” she pauses near the front door, voice all soft and sweet, “I am not leaving you, I just need time to myself.”

 

Bullseye gets it, really does. She’s left before. And he’s good at patterns, but most people are; difference is he  _ knows  _ he’s good at patterns. Red doesn’t. Odds are Red’s just got this feeling in the pit of his stomach like the world’s fucking ending and for all he knows, maybe it is.

 

But there’s nothing he could say that’d make this any better. Can’t tell Matty that he knows Elektra’s coming back without telling him what they’re doing. There’s a lot you can ignore when you don’t want to admit it’s going on, so long as it’s quiet. But if someone says it, then you’re just being stupid. He knows that, knows that like he knows where all the half healed breaks are, how they ache on  bad days.

 

By the time he’s ready to try and give eating a second go, Elektra’s already long gone. So he gives up, might be able to manage it when she’s back in the house, when everything’s back in order and balanced. That’s what it is, she keeps everything steady. Can’t be mad at her for long because he  _ needs  _ her.

 

Matty’s lost in it, too. Kind of blank faced and empty looking, can’t tell what his eyes are doing behind the glasses. 

 

Almost doesn’t want to move, ‘cos it might just ruin everything. One on one attention is  _ tricky  _ at best, too much of a balancing act to ever really relax in it. Can’t settle down, has to keep all the focus on staying upright. But he can’t stand this, so he gets up anyway, plate of food in hand.

 

Lingers by the table a second, “Want me to put your food away for later?”

 

“ _ No _ ,” Red bites back, little more venom in the word than there oughta be.

 

“Suit yourself.”

 

So he puts his food away, can’t abide by wasting things. He figures Elektra wants him to keep an eye on Red, that’s what this has been about all along, which means he can’t go out and try and clear his head. 

 

Truth is, he doesn’t want it to get to a point where he’ll have to admit that he doesn’t know how to do this, doesn’t know how to make Matty comfortable around him. If he outright tells that to Elektra, then he’s got no right to be here.

 

Which is what gets him slinking off with his tail between his legs. Figures he could go take a shower and by the time it’s over, maybe he’ll be able to think about anything other than the fact that this has to be a test. She wants to see how far he’ll go, what he’ll do for her if she pulls his strings just right.

 

But she said he could spend the night with Matty. And she’s been friendlier than usual the past while, hasn’t threatened him or anything.

 

He ends up picking apart the conversation while he’s waiting for the water to heat up. Trying to find anything she could twist around and stab him with while he’s not looking. And there’s nothing.

 

Only rule is she can’t know what he’s done to Red.

 

And then he’s standing under the water, thinking about how oh so very nice this morning was. Thinking about Matty’s fingers ghosting across his ribs, about kissing him, still half asleep and actually calm for once. How very nice it’d be to have that again.

 

And he  _ can  _ have it again, so long as Matty lets him.

 

It’s a miracle that he manages to avoid getting lost in his thoughts. Though half his mind was always on how long he’d been under the water; they’ve gotta worry about water bills now and Elektra seemed ready to skin him alive one of the times he’d ended up in there for an hour or so.

 

So he gets out, ignores how fucking cold it is once he’s out in the open air. Towels off a little bit, but he’s not too sure which towel belongs to who, ‘cos apparently that matters. Doesn’t care much for walking around wrapped in a wet towel, and it seems like modesty is the one thing Elektra doesn’t take beyond seriously.

 

His hair’s still short, but there’s enough of it to hold onto water, leaves it dripping down his back. Makes him shiver like someone’s walking over his grave each time it starts to trickle down.

 

When he steps out into the bedroom, Matty’s on the bed. The only light in the room is coming from the bathroom and the moonlight filtering in between the open blinds and Matty’s sitting on the bed with his ankles crossed, fingers running over a book resting in his lap.

 

And Matty stops, dog-ears a page and sets it aside on the bedside table, “I don’t plan on sleeping tonight. I should, but I can’t. Not while she’s out there.”

 

It’s starting to sink in that maybe Bullseye wants this, maybe he wants this just as much as Elektra thinks he does. She’ll get a kick out of being right, another thing to lord over him. But he doesn’t have to think about her; she’s not here and he’s supposed to be keeping Matty busy.

 

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to say anything, thanks his lucky stars that he’s able to even walk over to the bed. Stands next to it, trying to breathe long enough to get his mouth to work.

 

“Can I?”

 

Matty dips his head like he’s considering it, “Okay.”

 

Bullseye’s heart damn near skips a beat as he pulls himself up on the bed. Positions himself such that he’s stradling Red, not tight enough to have him pinned because lord knows he’d let Matty shove him away if it meant even a second of this. 

 

He goes for Red’s face, hands cupping his cheeks, thumbs running over the line of his jaw. Matty goes for his hips, leaves his hands resting there, still and steady.

 

“You’re naked.”

 

“Doesn’t have to mean anything, really,” he says, then he leans right in and kisses Red.

 

Red doesn’t buck him off, doesn’t try and do much of anything other than lick at his lips until he opens his mouth a little bit. It’s good, too good, getting him more riled up than he wanted to be. 

 

Maybe Red’s just doing this to get back at Handsome. But that’s not what he needs to be thinking about, he needs to be thinking about Matty, about making him feel good, nothing that’ll make him reconsider doing this.

 

He breaks away for a second to breathe, can’t do it quite right through his nose what with how many times it’s been broken. And Matty’s panting, face all flushed.

 

Bullseye goes back for seconds, shorter, shallower this time, but still staying close, “What do you want me to do?”

 

“Keep it up, for now,” Matty laughs, “I didn’t think you’d be good at this.”

 

He’s not, just responding to Red responding to him. But he can fake it. Starts at Matty’s jaw, working his way down to his neck, and Matt’s thumbing circles over the skin on his waist, makes him get goosebumps, shiver down his spine. 

 

He stops, just for a second, “Elektra said this was fine. Can’t leave any marks, though.”

 

“Does that apply to me,  _ too?” _

 

Bullseye kind of shudders at that, not necessarily a bad kind, all stemming from this warmth at the pit of his stomach, electricity up through his veins, “Not sure.”

 

“You really need to ask for clarification on terms before you agree to anything.”

 

“Shut up, okay?” Bullseye starts back up on his path.

 

Isn’t gonna leave any hickeys, doesn’t want to test the boundaries of the situation. But once he hits Matty’s shoulder, he bites it, just once, not hard enough to leave marks, but he can tell that Red can feel his teeth with the way he twitches underneath Bullseye.

 

By the time he’s sliding back up to Red, back to kiss him all proper-like, Red’s started moving his hands over his stomach, muscles pulled taught as a drum. He kisses Red again just as Matty’s calloused palms reach his ribs and he knows, knows, knows where this is headed.

 

“Don’t say anything, please, don’t say anything.”

 

“ _ Oh, _ ” Matty says, kind of breathless.

 

“Please, please, don’t say anything.”

 

He thinks he finally understands what Elektra was trying to say. Never been in a situation before where he couldn’t just kill someone when it’s starting to go south. But he’d never hurt Matty, even if he-

-

 

“No, it’s, it’s okay.”

 

Matty’s hands are still resting against him, completely motionless this time around. Might even be into it if Red hadn’t just  _ stopped.  _ If he’d kept on going without saying anything, rubbing circles into his skin while Bullseye gets to have Red’s tongue down his throat. 

 

But now, he can’t get his heart to settle down.

 

It’s almost worse when Matty takes his hands off him, like he’s something disgusting. Couldn’t keep going like this, though. Too skittish, too nervous to really have any fun.

 

“Maybe you should put some clothes on, Ben.”

 

That’s what really sets him off, gets these burning, angry tears running down his cheeks, “That’s not my fucking name.”

 

Matty brings up a hand, like he’s gonna fucking touch Bullseye after what he’s done. That’s enough motivation to get him to roll off of Red, curling up next to him on the bed. He doesn’t know why he’s still crying, still shaking like a leaf.

 

Red smooths a hand over his side, just makes him start sobbing instead of just plain ol’ fashioned crying. He can’t pull away, though. Figures this might be his fault, should’ve told Red what he was getting into. Never seemed like much of an issue, before.

 

“Stop fuckin’ touching me,” he growls out, almost chokes on his words.

 

“What’s wrong?” Red asks, like he doesn’t already know, “Just tell me, please.”

 

Makes him want to up and die the way Matty says it, like he hasn’t done anything wrong. Like he’s not the one to blame. Would’ve been easier if Red had just shoved him away, just told him to his face that he didn’t want this. Wouldn’t make him feel so fucking terrible.

 

Red never wanted him, never wanted closeness, never wanted those soft moments, nothing malicious behind them.

 

It stings, really does. Can’t manage to stop crying about it, vision blurred beyond recognition as he’s gasping for air. 

 

Red stops stroking his side, hates to admit how much that makes things worse because it’s just what he asked for. But he curls up tighter, tops of his thighs pressed against his chest, trying to stop the terrible, whole body sobs. Doesn’t even know why this hurts so much.

 

“What did you  _ do, Matt _ ?”

 

Elektra’s home and that almost makes it worse. At least he’s kept Red distracted, but he didn’t even realize she was back. It’s strange to hear an actual note of anger in her voice, though. Doesn’t usually call Red ‘Matt’, always ‘Matthew, darling’ this and ‘Matthew, love’ that.

 

“I don’t know, he just--”

 

“I leave for  _ one  _ night and you cannot manage to play nice?”

 

“He won’t  _ tell  _ me, he’s just been  _ crying,”  _ Matty sounds all sheepish; isn’t much of a comfort, though.

 

“Crying, yes,  _ and  _ he is naked. And I know that you are not one for tact, so I ask you again: What. Did. You.  _ Do _ ?”

 

“We were  _ going  _ to, uh,” Matty catches himself on it, can’t even bear to say it out loud, “And he was so  _ nervous,  _ I could hear the way his heart was beating, a mile a minute. So I suggested he get  dressed. And he hasn’t stopped since. It was nothing, I don’t know what got him so upset.”

 

Can’t even get himself settled down enough to plead his case, to tell her exactly what her  _ loving  _ boyfriend did. They’re made for each other, really. Awful mean considering they’re the good guys.

 

“Apologize. If you cannot manage to get Bullseye to stop  _ keening,  _ I will  _ leave.  _ You know that I am not in the business of empty threats,” she’s even and calm, but there’s a note in her voice that tells him this is the equivalent of a screaming match.

 

“There’s nothing  _ to  _ apologize for! He’s the one who’s fucked up!”

 

It’s too much, fucking suffocating. Can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do much of anything other than try and ignore it, eyes squeezed shut and arms wrapped around, hugging himself.


	4. part iv

Something about the fight must’ve really gotten to him ‘cos next thing he knows, he’s lying on the bed with his head resting in Elektra’s lap. She’s raking her nails over his scalp, slow and steady and soft enough to not leave a mark.

 

“There we go, shhh, shhh,” she croons, “You are far more tolerable when you are not crying.”

 

She’s got one thing right. He’s  _ not  _ crying, isn’t too sure when that happened. Still is shaking, though.

 

Matty’s still on the bed, on the other side of him, which makes things a whole hell of a lot more complicated.

 

“Sit up,” she pauses for a second, adds, “Do not do it quickly.”

 

“Why?” He whines, voice kind of thready and stiff.

 

“You are shivering. I am  _ going  _ to get you a shirt.”

 

He doesn’t want to push this too far, kind of half hopes they’ll go back to that kind of comfortable around each other. So he shoves himself up, off her lap. Nice and slow, but it’s still not enough to stop his head from spinning.

 

Elektra gets off of the bed in a quick, fluid motion he can barely keep up with. Never is quite in his right mind after he loses touch with the world. Could probably do with giving up and going to sleep, given the way he’s starting to yawn.

 

She digs through a drawer, pulls out a shirt, and climbs back up on the bed to take her place before it’s even gotten cold. 

 

Bullseye doesn’t even mind much when she pushes his arms up above his head and pulls the shirt on for him. Everything about him feels heavy, leaded, like he’s sinking underneath water.

 

Even throws a pair of underwear at him, like an afterthought. But he's rather die than let her do that for him, so he doesn't much mind.

 

And then she settles back down in her spot on the side of the bed, used to be his spot, and doesn’t even say anything when he lays back down on her lap. She picks back up right where she left off, starting at his forehead and dragging her nails all the way down to the nape of his neck. It’s good, gets him sleepy, eyes closed as he lets it keep on happening.

 

“I suppose it is good that I have not killed you. You can be…  _ Entertaining  _ at times.”

 

Almost feels like she means it, like she likes him. Can’t be true, though, but it’s a nice lie for the time being.

 

“Matty called me Ben,” he whispers, all pathetic and quiet and Elektra doesn’t stop while he’s talking, “Dunno why it set me off so bad.”

 

“It’s your name, isn’t it?  _ One  _ of them?”

 

“Not as easy as that, Red.”

 

Elektra stops what she’s doing, hand pressed tight against the back of his neck like he’s a kitten, “Stop. Do not undo all of my hard work at calming you down.”

 

So he takes a minute to compose himself, doesn’t let it get too far, breathing nice and deep and trying to not get fed up. He doesn’t much like being angry at Red, but god knows everything about him makes it  _ easy. _

 

“It is and it isn’t,” he says, hopes he can leave it at that but he knows Matty can’t abide by vagueness, “Is when I need something on paper, isn’t my  _ actual  _ name.”

 

"I've read your records, you've been booked under Benjamin Poindexter every single time you've been in Rikers."

 

Bullseye growls at that, doesn't even realize he's doing it until Elektra stops stroking his back. Waiting for him to settle back down.

 

He swallows the lump in his throat, "It's like the Devil. You're Matty Murdock but sometimes you're Daredevil and you'd knock someone's teeth in if they just came up and  _ called  _ you that on the street."

 

"Okay," Red says, doesn't apologize or admit he was wrong, but he rests a hand against Bullseye's side and that's about as good.

 

As long as he's calm, as long as he's good, they'll keep up at this. Which is hard because his heart's fucking beating out of his chest just thinking about how much he likes this present situation. He's got the sense that he's let Elektra in too close; his life is in her hands, knows that each time she lets a hand linger on his neck, but she was oh so very nice to him.

 

He's still mad at Red, fucking pissed. Wanted a night with Matty all to himself, but there’s no way he could handle  _ that  _ when he gets worked up like this and what’s happening now is good too.

 

But he's pretty sure Elektra's doing this to hurt Matty. Being all close-like and affectionate with Bullseye instead of her boyfriend, punishment for some slight. Can’t just be for upsetting him; that’s not her style, doesn’t fit in with her patterns.

 

It’s not that he minds that, always figured it’d be nice to knock Red down a peg or two and this way, they aren’t trying to claw each other’s eyes out. 

 

“Sit up,” Elektra takes her hand away and he damn near honest to god whines when she does it.

 

But he’s used to following orders, so he does sit up. Elektra lies down after that, right next to him, leaves him in the middle like Matty usually is.

 

“I did not think I needed to tell you it was okay to lie down,” she looks up at him, curls splayed out on the pillow.

 

He’d bite back with something, but everything feels so fucking precarious, so fragile and perfectly balanced. The three of them dancing on the head of a pin. So he just settles down, nestled between her and Matty.

 

Elektra rolls over on her side, picks right back up where she left off, raking her nails over his scalp.

 

“You’re doin’ this to get Red all riled up and pissed off, right?” 

 

All he wants is a confirmation, a reason to not get too used to life looking like this.

 

But he doesn’t get that kind of luxury. Elektra just shushes him and keeps doing what she’s doing and he hates how he ends up closing his eyes and savoring it.

 

“Oh, so you’re angry at  _ me?”  _ Matty growls out.

 

He should’ve known things would never stay quiet for long. Always plays out like this, like maybe they just weren’t destined to make it. But they haven’t burnt the house down yet and they’re still toeing  the line between love and hate.

 

“Matthew, darling, please quiet down. People are trying to sleep.”

 

“You’re the one who practically  _ threw  _ Bullseye at me, and  _ this  _ is what you do?”

 

Only thing keeping him calm is really, honestly, Elektra’s hands against his skin. She’s still moving slow and steady, even as she talks; always has been easy for her to keep her composure in a fight, he figures. 

 

“I think you will find that Bullseye came to you  _ quite  _ willingly.”

 

As much as he likes this, as nice as it feels, he can’t take it, “STOP! Fucking  _ stop! _ I’m not some fucking  _ thing  _ you two can use to try and gut each other.”

 

Elektra pulls away; can’t tell if she’s doing it because she’s caught off guard or if she thinks she doesn’t have to tell him that she’ll only do this if he’s settled down. He digs the meat of his palms into his eyes, makes this terrible, broken, snarling sound.

 

“Can’t keep doing this to me, please, god, I can’t live like this.”

 

And no one says much of anything after that. He’d almost rather have them fighting, that way it’s something to cover up the desperate gulping breaths he’s sucking in because nothing feels like it’s making it to his lungs.

 

He gets like this sometimes. Never usually lets anyone see it, save for the couple times Red’s caught him, got him cornered.

 

Figures he’s probably cornered now and that’s what this is.

 

He doesn’t even want an apology, not like he’s ever gotten too used to that song and dance. But he really wants to stop being pulled in every direction at once. He wants Matty and he wants Elektra to like him but it might not be worth it.

 

“I assumed that you would want this,” Elektra speaks, not soft so much as restrained, “I assumed that your interest in Bullseye was something along these lines.”

 

“That’s not your decision to  _ make.” _

 

He’d slip out all nice and quiet-like if they wouldn’t notice, but he’s right in the middle and Elektra’s taken to running her hand over his arms, like she doesn’t want him to get upset. It’s strange and oh so very out of place, but it’s working.

 

“You ever bother to ask me what  _ I  _ want?” He snarls, isn’t too keen on starting a fight but he’s alright with joining one.

 

Elektra gives this half laugh, “You  _ want  _ Matthew. It is simple. We established that this morning.”

 

He doesn’t have much of a counter to that. There isn’t much he wants out of this arrangement outside of Matty and she knows it damn well.

 

“You’re forgetting about the key party of this whole situation. What makes you think I’d  _ want  _ Bullseye?”

 

That gets to him, catches in his throat and he almost chokes on it as he tries to speak, “D’you really hate me that much? Am I that, that  _ disgusting? _ ”

 

It’s not about tonight, not fully. But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt when Matty told him to get dressed.

 

“ _ Well-- _ ”

 

“--Let us leave this until  _ tomorrow _ ,” Elektra cuts in.”

 

“No. No, I wanna hear what Red has to say.”

 

“Well,” Red swallows hard, “Bullseye, you spent years killing people for money.”

 

“Yeah? That doesn’t stop you from fucking Elektra, does it?”

 

Elektra jabs him in the ribs for that, leaves him wheezing a little bit, but she doesn’t try and stop the conversation a second time.

 

“And we obviously have some things to  _ talk about, _ ” Red adds.

 

“No. No we don’t. I told you not to say  _ anything  _ and you went ahead and fuckin’ ruined it all,” his voice is straining more than he ever wanted it to; knows he’s letting Red figure out that he’s still got a  weakness or two, still got a soft spot for the devil to dig his claws into, “You coulda just let me get you off and make you feel all nice and good and said nothin’. I woulda done anything you asked.”

 

“You did not tell him?” Elektra asks like she finds it all very interesting indeed, “Not even when you thought that you would be having sex?”

 

“Fuckin’ Christ almighty, why is everyone so  _ hung up  _ on this?”

 

“Bullseye…”

 

He rolls over, wants Matty to face him if he’s gonna up and tell him this whole thing is pointless.

 

“ _ Yeah _ ?” He growls out, “What is it,  _ Matty _ ?”

 

“You were scared. You know I can tell that, right? I wasn’t going to do  _ that  _ when you were scared.”

 

For some reason, that honest-to-god makes him want to up and start crying. He doesn’t know why and he just keeps himself busy focusing on how much he  _ doesn’t  _ want to do that and somewhere  along the way he ends up lying flat on his back. Doesn’t want to look at either of them, kind of hates them both but it’s not really hate, is it?

 

Elektra snakes an arm across his stomach, reaching over for Red. And maybe Matty’s right. Maybe there  _ is _ a god out there and he must have a fucking bone to pick with Bullseye because Matty and Elektra end up holding hands, clasped tight and resting against the very bottom of his ribcage.

 

He can feel both of them heavy against him, hands rising and falling with each breath. Which he’s trying to keep all nice and even-like, measured, doesn’t want them to know that he’s dangerously close to losing it.

 

And Elektra’s free hand moves back up to his hair, must feel pretty damn good about herself for cracking the code because it really does work wonders for getting him to settle down. It doesn’t hurt so much like this, being between the two of them. Almost feels like he fits.

 

* * *

He wakes up with Elektra’s arms wrapped around him, can feel her face digging into his back, damned cheekbones. And she squeezes a little bit tighter and slides a hand all the way down to his hip before he finally kicks back at her, heel catching her in the shin.

 

“Not your boyfriend, ‘Lektra.”

 

“Mmm,” she speaks against the back of his neck, “It would appear  _ not.” _

 

And she doesn’t let go, just moves her hand back up to join the other, wrapping around his middle.

 

He reaches out to Matty, sets to tucking his hair behind his ear. Always looks calmer when he’s asleep, never seems to relax much other times. He’d pull Red in close, but that might startle him and he’d rather not let Red break his nose ever again.

 

Strange thing to admit, though, that he’d choose this kind of torture over picking a fight any day.

 

But he doesn’t have to pull Matty in at all, comes right to him, eyes still closed and face still slack. The way Red goes about things makes it less of holding him and more of Red holding Elektra, with Bullseye trapped in the middle. But it’s nice and it gives him an opening to wrap himself around Matty, legs all tangled up in his.

 

He’d relax and enjoy it, but he figures this is why Elektra’s letting him take jobs. Give him a taste of what they stand to lose. He’d love to stay like this forever, and that’s what’s gonna make him be careful.

 

"Are you two still mad at me?" Red's damn near speaking against his neck.

 

The truth of the matter is that Bullseye could never be mad at Matty for long and this is more than enough to get him to forgive Red a thousand times over for anything and everything. So he'll defer to Elektra, let her decide if they oughta still be mad at him.

 

"Mm," Elektra's still got her face pressed against his back, kind of muffles everything, "Well, Matthew, I suppose that is determined by whether or not you apologize to Bullseye."

 

He can't choke back a quick, frantic laugh; you might even think she's capable of being  _ nice. _ Though he figures it's more about knocking Matty down a peg or two than making himself feel any better.

 

"Okay. Alright," Matty's breath is warm against his skin and so mind numbingly close, "I'm  _ sorry _ I made you cry."

 

It doesn't sound all that genuine and it really does make it harder to put this all behind him. Almost gets him wanting to snap back that it was a mite more than making him cry. 

 

"Why didn't you just keep quiet like I asked?"

 

"Who are you? Really."

 

Matty's a slippery one, good at getting out of questions, and it's damn near infuriating how he just keeps on turning things back around on Bullseye.

 

"I  _ told  _ you already. You know I don't lie to you anymore, Red."

 

"Well you must've left something  _ out  _ because otherwise we wouldn't be in this situation," Red speaks through his teeth.

 

Elektra's kind enough to not speak up, just sets to thumbing circles against his stomach. As much as it's setting his teeth on edge, he figures they probably need to talk through this so Matty can get the fuck over himself and stop being pissed off.

 

"I dunno what else to tell you, Red. You got more than anyone else."

 

"Matthew, dear, Benjamin Poindexter is an alias," she says it in the slow, deliberate way that always makes it seem like she thinks you're dumber than sin.

 

"Well I think we  _ all  _ know that  _ now _ ."

 

He damn near shoves Red away, "What the  _ fuck _ is that 'sposed to mean?"

 

But Elektra squeezes him again in a way that says he really oughta settle down.

 

"It is also the only concrete proof that the person currently between us exists in any tangible way. You know that Fisk does not allow for secrets, so  _ clearly _ there is nothing  _ to  _ find."

 

"But, there's--"

 

“ _ Matt,”  _ Elektra hisses, sharp and short and full of venom, "Stop talking."

 

Bullseye’s getting that terrible, twitchy, restless feeling all pent up inside of him and it’s never good for anyone. Always ends badly and he’s trying to be good.

 

"Fuck this, let me outta here," he sounds more frantic than he'd like to and he's not actually making any attempts to get up.

 

Still, Elektra lets go of him and he takes matters into his own hands long enough to shove Red away. Doesn't make it all that far, though, just sits up, hunched over himself with his head between his knees and his the meat of his palms digging into his eyelids. Ideally, he'd scream, but he's mostly just trying to breathe steadily enough that he doesn't black out.

 

"I hate you," it's taking everything out of him just to speak, "I hate you both."

 

And neither of the lovebirds get up, but they don't try to touch him either, which is smart 'cos he might just break someone's fucking hand. All but bolts, only slows himself a hair when he tries to get off the bed and almost falls. He's still in a bad way, never really healed all the way back to normal, and there's spots in his vision when he finally stands up.

 

He's at the doorway when he hears Elektra, cold and clear, "Let him  _ go,  _ Matthew."

 

And he'd be lying if he said that didn't get his blood boiling worse than before. He's in the mood to do something stupid, but he doesn't want to get kicked out or end up back on Red's bad side and he's sick of being beat to shit and never getting any better.

 

So he settles on the chipped, shitty old dishes in their cupboard because he really does hate 'em, they drive him up the goddamn wall. Don't have that many, but he takes them all out and sits them  down on the counter.

 

Picks one up and it’s heavy enough that it’s gotta be real ceramic. Gets a good spin to it when he throws it and it shatters when it hits the wall. So he picks up a second one, throws that too. Just keeps on going until there aren’t any plates left and Elektra’s standing at the entrance to the kitchen with her hands on her hips.

 

“Are you finished?”

 

He’s not, not really. Still is itching to go out and hurt someone or get hurt. Doesn’t much matter either way. Breaking plates just isn’t enough. And he’s fucking angry, more than Red or Handsome will ever know.

 

“Those were our only plates, Bullseye. You are not the only one who lives here.”

 

“I don’t  _ care!  _ Why don’t you  _ fucking  _ understand that?! None of this  _ matters!” _

 

“You will clean this up, understood?” Elektra says it like she doesn’t expect much of an answer.

 

He’s seething, shaking as he keeps on sucking in his breath through bared teeth. Hands are all slick with blood, too. Must’ve been a bit more careless than he thought, let them get all cut up in the process.

 

And he’s just kinda stuck staring at his palms, waiting for the pain to set in.

 

Handsome sidles on up to him, noticed a moment of weakness and decided to go in for the kill. Flinches just a little bit when she gets close, ends up holding his hands close to his chest and he knows  he’s bleeding on the shirt, doesn’t even know whose shirt it is.

 

“ _ Touch me and I’ll snap your fucking fingers, _ ” he hisses through his teeth.

 

“Let me clean your hands.”

 

Elektra reaches out, but she stops just shy of touching him. Must be waiting for him to give the okay, didn’t think she had it in her to do that kind of thing.

 

“Fuck off, I can take care of  _ myself.” _

 

“You do not seem to be doing a very good job of that,” Elektra laughs in that terrible, biting way.

 

“I was doin’ just  _ peachy  _ before I met you two.”

 

That gets Handsome laughing again, but it’s softer, kind of hollow, “ _ Please _ , allow me to clean your hands.”

 

And she asks so soft and gentle-like that he doesn't even fight back when she catches his wrist and leads him over to the kitchen. And he's moving, stupid and brainless, climbs up on the counter without thinking and gets blood on the already stained countertop. Elektra runs the water hot and he almost jerks away when she sticks his hand under it. 

 

"Why do you do these things?" She isn't looking at him, just watching what she's doing, and she almost sounds kind as she says it.

 

Elektra's careful as she circles her thumbs over his palm, clears away the blood and sets it to circling down the drain. The cut isn't too bad, but he bleeds more than he ought to.

 

Soon as she's done with the first hand, she presses a kitchen towel into it, "Keep pressure on the wound."

 

That's not too easy to do while she's taking care of the other hand, but now's not the time to complain. Just presses the towel covered hand hard against his opposite shoulder.

 

This one's a mite nastier and it gets his blood boiling just thinking about how he managed to lose control that badly. He can use both hands just as capably, but it's the principle of the matter. Scares  him, too.

 

Elektra sighs once she's done. Grips the edge of the counter, knuckles white and her face all twisted up. Hangs her head, not quite low enough that she'll get her hair wet.

 

"I do not know if I can let you work an assignment with me."

 

"Fuck you," he growls, twisting the towel between is hands, still hasn't taken pressure off the cuts like she told him to, "You promised."

 

"That was before you broke all of our plates."

 

"Only in such a bad way 'cos of Red, 'Lektra."

 

She frowns at that, lip caught between her teeth, "I believe both of you had some part in this. You seem to approach this in…  _ interesting _ ways."

 

He's really starting to hate how often she's right, but there are some things she's got no business knowing.

 

"We aren't talking about my fucking sex life."

 

Sure as shit aren't talking about how half the time it's fooling around mostly dressed in the dark somewhere, about how he's killed or might as well have killed enough partners to be classed as a black widow. Not that he gets off on it, doesn't often mix work and pleasure and he’d do it in a better way than this, but it's hard to get a read on a situation 'til someone's got a hand down his pants.

 

Makes him feel awful pathetic now that he's been living with Red.

 

“But he shoulda told me if he hated me that much,” Bullseye adds, under his breath.

 

“Matthew does not hate you,” she stands up straight, gathers her hair on one side, over her shoulder, “He is… complicated. It is not easy for him to admit that he has desires. And you are the first man he has pursued.”

 

“Don’t think that shit he pulled really counts as  _ pursuing  _ much of anything.”

 

He’s still feeling mean, but it really does make him feel awful special that he’s the  _ first  _ to get Red like this. Might be runner up to Elektra, but he’s the only man who’s ever woken up next to Red, ever  kissed him awake.

 

“You really should have prepared for a reaction such as that.”

 

It’s a finality, one that hangs heavy in the air. And then Elektra opens the cabinet under the sink, fishes out some bandages like she had ‘em in there because she figured this would happen. Probably  got them for Matty, though. Never meant to use the bandages on him.

 

But she takes one of his hands, all careful-like, and wraps it anyways.

 

“You have  _ many  _ scars on your hands,” she barely lets her voice get above a whisper.

 

“Yeah. No shit.”

 

He’s not always careful, sometimes he’s lost somewhere in a thought and just reacting. But that’s not it, well, not all of it. Got burns on the back of his hands and up his arms and he  _ knows  _ Handsome’s seen ‘em but she’s got sense enough to keep her mouth shut. They’re real old, but they’ve never faded enough that stupid people won’t try and ask questions.

 

Elektra’s already wrapping the second hand when he realizes he’s been out of touch with reality a little while longer than he thought. She finishes up and lets his hand drop back to his lap. Thinks he might be committing some cardinal sin, but he reaches out, catches her hand and holds it tight between his.

 

“Please, please let me go back to work. I’m goin’ stir crazy.”

 

“We will see if you are suitable to continue working,” Elektra pulls away, isn’t quite mean about it, though, “Tonight. If you make it through today without issue.”

 

It’s not fair that she’s playing like this. Done jobs when he was worse off than this, but he won’t be able to stick around if he doesn’t have her blessing. So he’ll be good, behave, all that shit. Can’t do much, anyway, on account of how screwy things are in his head right about now.

 

“Yeah, alright. I’ll play your game.”

 

She frowns at that, which is interesting, out of place.

 

“Is that what you think this is? You think I am  _ testing  _ you?”

 

Kinda gets the sense he’s not supposed to answer, but what else would it be?

 

“ _ Bullseye, _ ” she says, got that stern sound to her words that always makes him shrink, curl right into himself like it’ll make this all easier, “You broke all of our plates before we even made it to breakfast. You spent a week cleaning to the point of obsession. You did not  _ sleep  _ during that period of time and had to be forced to do as such when you finally did sleep. I need to be assured that you will not  get yourself killed.”

 

And he can’t stop himself from laughing, “You think I can’t take a beating?  _ Really? _ ”

 

“That is most definitely  _ not  _ what I think. I seem to recall that you are all too eager to goad people into hurting you and it is a waste of time to ensure you return home in one piece.”

 

He was almost getting used to that nicer side of her, but this is the one that makes sense. Probably doesn’t even want to let him on a job, anyway, but she’ll run him ragged before telling him that.

 

“I’m a fucking professional, ‘Lektra. I can keep my head level.”

 

“Then prove it.”

 

She leaves him on the counter, probably heading on back to Matty in the bedroom.

 

* * *

As much as it galls him to admit it, he really does spend the whole day on his best behavior. Isn’t saying much, though, ‘cos most of what he does is sleep, eat something, then sleep some more. Doesn’t pay to be exhausted on a job and he’s gonna be running, can’t afford to get light-headed. Gets the plates cleaned up before any of that, of course.

 

There’s part of him that’s worried, too. Not that it’s ever been something he’s  _ needed  _ to practice, but he’s out of practice for sure. Hasn’t been on the streets, hasn’t done footwork, since they killed Fisk.

 

Keeps bolting awake before he even makes it back to sleep, though, ‘cos he’s half certain Elektra might just leave him asleep on the couch if she finds him like this. Doesn’t want to give her any excuse to not let him tag along, as pathetic as it makes him feel.

 

But somewhere between settling down again and jerking awake, Elektra must’ve come through ‘cos there’s a box on the coffee table that sure as shit wasn’t there earlier. Awful nondescript, rectangular and labeless. And he sits up, scrubs at his eyes, figures he’s got a pretty good idea what’s inside.

 

It’s good, real good, gets him all giddy, like he was ever the type of kid to do shit like Christmas.

 

Lifts the lid off with this stupid little grin on his face, but he just can’t help it, it’s the best thing to happen to him all month. 

 

He’s got his suit back.

 

Back again, back to normal, like nothing ever happened.

 

He shuts the box right quick once he realizes what it is. Steals off to the bedroom holding it tight and strips out of the bloody shirt he’s in so he can put it on. Pulls on an undershirt and slips right into i t and it fits so damn good, just like a second skin.

 

He’s missed it, really. Not entirely the suit itself, but something underneath it all.

 

Does up the belt, pulls on his boots and laces them tight. Slips on the gloves after that, figures he should wait awhile before putting on the mask, but that’s not gonna stop him from keeping a hold on it. And he’s still smiling, heart damn near beating out of his chest and his stomach doing flips.

 

It barely feels real, feels like he might be dreaming the whole while he spends on the couch, waiting for Elektra to come get him. He’s not sitting back, not even relaxing. Just perched on the edge of the seat, flipping a couple of coins between his fingers. Getting awful antsy, all pent up and ready to run.

 

And, the thing is, he doesn’t even have to wait all that long before he can hear Elektra outside, laughing, fumbling with her key. Opens up the door with Red hanging off her arm and stops dead in her tracks.

 

“ _ Oh _ ,” she wrinkles her nose.

 

“What? What is it?”

 

Red tenses up, like Elektra would say anything instead of just getting right down to the messy shit if something was actually, truly, wrong.

 

“Bullseye is in his suit, dear,” Elektra nudges the front door shut with her heel, “I was not expecting you to be so…  _ enthusiastic  _ about it. But I trust it fits, yes? I had to make several assumptions about measurements.”

 

“Yeah, fits alright.”

 

Fits fucking perfect, but he doesn’t want it to go to her head. Still so caught up in the feeling of completeness that he hasn’t even put too much thought towards the rest of the situation, but there’s something off about it.

 

Matty tilts his head, slow and all suspicious-like, “Elektra, we agreed there wouldn’t be any more killing.”

 

“Of course, my love,” she’s facing Matty, hand against the back of his neck, smoothing her thumb over his cheek, but her eyes are cast towards Bullseye, “However, we need fresh eyes for our efforts.”

 

“ _ Fuck _ , you’ve really been doin’ this without me? I’m  _ hurt.” _

 

Doesn’t want anyone to figure out exactly how upset that makes him, so he’s smirking all the while. Might even manage a laugh, makes it sound like he never, even for a second, thought they trusted him.

 

“You haven’t exactly been in the best shape. And your track record isn’t  _ great. _ ”

 

“Awful funny for a good Catholic boy like you to be so opposed to the idea of people changin’.”

 

“People don’t change,” Red frowns, “They just repent and carry on until next confession.”

 

Elektra gets real close to him after that, like she’s about to kiss him, but she stops just short of it, “Matthew, darling, stop trying to convert Bullseye.”

 

“I’m  _ not _ .”

 

There’s something about the way Red says it, cold fire fury, sharp as a knife. Sends a shiver down his spine.

 

Hates the feeling in the room, so he cuts in, “What are we ‘sposed to be doing tonight if I’m  _ not  _ killing people?”

 

“One of the deposed nobles of the last regime has hidden himself away to lick his wounds. We are  _ trying  _ to find him, lest he thinks of himself as an heir to the throne.”

 

She’s being careful, like she always is, but it sets his teeth on edge. Talking in code rarely makes him feel good, gets his thoughts racing, picking out all the spots that would be awful nice to hide bugs. But they bought this place and he’s cleaned it head to toe. Oughta settle down.

 

When he finally reigns himself in, Elektra’s whispering to Red, holding him close, his hands on her hips. Barely catches most of it, but he gets enough to put the picture together.

 

“ _ You needn’t come along, sweetness. _ ”

 

Matty nods dutifully, hand sliding down towards her thigh. She laughs, looks like she actually kisses him this time around.

 

“ _ I will leave Bullseye to wear himself out and return to you, _ ” and she straightens up, shoos Red’s hand away, “Allow me to get changed, first.”

 

She slides out of the room without a hint of hesitation. Leaves him all alone with Red; tensions are high but she’s likely wagering that it won’t end in a fight. Maybe she’s right on the money, ‘cos she  probably won’t let him tag along if it does shake out like that.

 

Matty settles back against the wall, arms crossed, jaw set.

 

“She’s hurting people again, right? When I’m not there?” Red asks, voice low, almost conspiratorial.

 

“Fuck if I know, Red,” he’s lying through his teeth, figures she started back up as soon as she could, “If you don’t remember, I’ve been cooped up in here all the time.”

 

She must’ve had the costume on under her dress, though. She’s barely gone a minute before she comes back, hair tied up in her scarf like always. Shuts the two of them up real quick, like Red doesn’t want her to know that he doesn’t trust her. Has to admit, it feels awful good for everything to look like it’s back to the way it was.

 

Elektra drags a hand across Bullseye’s shoulder and it’s enough to get the message across. He pulls the mask on and follows after her. Got a stupid little bounce in his step, too, ‘cos he really did get caught up in how nice it was to have the suit again.

 

Figures he’ll get the whole story when they’re out of earshot. There’s no way she told him everything and he’ll need more details to find someone, whether he’s gonna kill them or not.

 

But she hovers by the door a second, instead.

 

Changes her mind and heads on over to Red, cupping his cheeks and trying to love away the scowl on his face, “Darling, there is no use in sulking. Perhaps Bullseye will find another lead for you to pursue. We have had three days with little to show for our time and energy.”

 

“You took matters into your own hands last night.”

 

“I  _ wanted  _ you to have a single night without worrying yourself into an early grave.”

 

Matty sighs, like a surrender, “I just worry about you when you’re out there.”

 

Says it like he’s worried about what she’ll do, instead of what’ll happen to her, which just goes to show that Matty is more optimistic than stupid. Doesn’t mean the same thing, but they’re real close.

 

“You are too good to me.”

 

She doesn’t sound all that thrilled, but there’s something real in the kiss she punctuates it with. Lets her fingers tangle up in Red’s hair and when she breaks it off, she rests her forehead against his.

 

“Be back soon, okay?”

 

“I promise,” she lets a hand linger on Red’s neck before moving back to the door.

 

Red follows, too. Like he might up and try to stop her. But he doesn’t, just stands there like he’s lost, drifted off somewhere and now he’s not sure what to do.

 

And because Bullseye’s terrible, rotten to the core with a jealous streak a mile wide across his heart, he picks up right where she left off. Reaches out, hooks a hand around Matty’s neck, thumb resting against his sideburns. Makes it clear that there’s an out. 

 

But Matty doesn’t pull away, even if he doesn’t lean in, and he tilts his head just so when Bullseye draws him in. Kind of needy, couldn’t quite call it chaste.  Isn’t even one-sided, either. Red’s slipped his fingers under the fabric of the mask, like it’d ruin the moment to actually touch it. 

 

Ends up smiling against his lips since it’d be out of place to laugh, but it’s real funny how Red’s seeing him off to work with a kiss.

 

"Be good," Red says, thumbing the soft skin under his eyes, " _ Both  _ of you."

 

If he was a better person, he'd almost feel bad about lying to Red. He figures Matty probably knows they're lying, knows he's lying to himself.

 

But Red's got an awful trick of his own, knows they're gonna be good because they both want to come home to his bed.

 

"Don't worry about us," Bullseye smiles all crooked-like.

 

They slip out after that. Apartment's the last one in the hallway and they don't have far to go before ducking into an access door. Doesn't ask any questions yet, 'cos he's not sure how far Matty can hear with that freaky sense of his.

 

Once they're up on the roof, though, he can't help it.

 

"What are we doing tonight?"

 

Elektra strides up to the edge of the building, staring out over the rooftops with her arms crossed. There's something about it that sets his teeth on edge, like he's in for more than he ever wagered on.

 

"We have not been able to find Wilson Fisk's assistant. He disappeared at some point in the beginning of the chaos and has not been seen since."

 

He has to laugh, "You mean  _ Wesley?  _ You're lookin' for fuckin' Wesley? He's nothin', doesn't have the drive to try and take it back from us. Got no spine, just gets in bed with whoever's payin' the most."

 

Much as he hates him, he figures Wesley wouldn't just roll over and die, so he's gotta be out there somewhere, though.

 

"You  _ truly  _ are one to talk," Elektra scoffs.

 

" _ Hey _ , you two aren't even  _ paying _ me."

 

She waves her hand, universal signal to shut up, "It is the principle of the matter. He has not sworn loyalty to us and if he  _ is  _ in league with the Hand, then it is all the more prudent to  _ deal _ with him."

 

Now  _ that's  _ a sight he'd like to see. Wesley coming to the three of them, tail between his legs, asking to be taken back. He bets Wes'd beg, bets he'd try and kiss up to Red but no dice, Red doesn't stand  for that shit.

 

But it wouldn't get that far, anyway. He's gonna get to kill Wesley.

 

"Well," he says, already feeling like he's on cloud fucking nine, love your job and you never work a day in your life and all that shit, "Worst case scenario has him in Japan but the planes ain't been up and  runnin' out of the evacuation zone for more than a week. And he likes to do everything over the table, all legal-like, 'cos he still fancies himself a businessman. And he prob'ly knows I was pretending to be him, by now, can't be too happy about having his name on things he wasn't privy to."

 

"What is the point to this tirade?" Elektra snaps.

 

"Well, we oughta just invite him to a meeting. Let him come to us."

 

Elektra turns back, jaw set in a scowl, glaring daggers at him like she's livid she didn't think of it first, "Tell me you do not  _ really  _ believe it will be as easy as this."

 

"He's not gonna  _ trust  _ us, not for a second, but if he's here, he'll come, even if it's to try and stab us in the back."

 

He might be putting too much money on Wes being a creature of habit, but everyone is when it really comes down to it. Handsome looks like she's considering things, at least, worrying at her lip with  her teeth.

 

"He would not come alone, nor would he come unprepared."

 

"He's not gonna be important enough to the Hand to protect if things go south," he grins, probably looks half wild in the moonlight, "Y'see, the Hand isn't running a  _ business.  _ Don't need money or networks when you've got fucking magic."

 

Elektra gives him a severe look, eyes dark and ringed in shadow, "Bullseye, you do not know what the Hand is capable of."

 

"No. I don't. 'Cos you won't talk about whatever the fuck it is that they did to you."

 

And he knows he's won the fight because she shuts up, keeps her arms crossed and looks away from him, " _ Fine.  _ Perhaps you should busy yourself attempting to orchestrate this  _ meeting. _ "

 

"Roger that,  _ Handsome _ ."

 

Doesn't bother waiting for a reply before heading out, running start for a jump to the next building.

 

* * *

Takes a little while to get his head straight before he actually starts on his job. Isn't in his wheelhouse but you can't get by in freelance these days without being flexible. And there's no point starting out with the people on their side, but he's got no idea who's who anymore...

 

So he wastes some time going from building to building, seeing who’s still out on the streets. It’s a quiet night, for the city, and he can’t help but wonder if this is their doing. Still, not so quiet that he  doesn’t end up running into one costumed freak or another. Perched up on a building just a little taller than the one Bullseye’s on now.

 

“JJ,” the freak looks like one of Matty’s old friends, calls over his shoulder, “Bullseye’s back.”

 

“You better not be fucking with me again,” a woman calls back, he can’t spot her, though.

 

“I’m looking right at him, c’mon!”

 

“Well, he’s gotta be pretty fucking stupid if he’s come up for air already,” the woman drops down in front of him, makes the whole building shake.

 

Steps backwards as she steps forwards, won’t let her get too close.

 

“Hey,” he says, arms held up in a show of good faith, “We’ve got no bad blood with your lot.”

 

But she’s a fast one, real scary, has him by the throat in a second, “ _ We?” _

 

“Yeah, we, us,” he sounds a mite more frantic that he’d like to, “The Kingpin, we got nothin’ against you. Want the same as you.”

 

“ _ Really?”  _ she scoffs, but she sets him down all the same, “Tell Matthew that he’s fucking stupid if he thinks this is doing  _ good _ .”

 

Looks like she’s about to bolt, get the hell out of dodge with the other costume in tow, but he figures this is an opportunity he really shouldn’t waste.

 

So he calls out, “Wait! We’re lookin’ for Wesley, Fisk’s lapdog. Seen him recently?”

 

She stops dead in her tracks, turns back around real slow-like and she’s got this look in her eyes that tells him he needs to explain ASAP.

 

“We aren’t tryin’ to offer him a  _ job, _ ” he rolls his eyes, “We wanna make sure he isn’t gettin’ in with the Hand, ‘cos we’re fucked if they take New York.”

 

“No,” the woman snarls, “We haven’t  _ seen him around. _ ”

 

“Get the word out, will ya? Kingpin wants a meeting with Wesley, wants to see if we can work this out all civil-like."

 

"Why would we  _ ever  _ help you?"

 

"Red wants this done without any blood. He's just bein' proactive, doing the same as you guys."

 

Doesn't stick around after that, won't give her an opening to grab him again. He drops down to the fire escape below and scrambles to the ground. Doesn't much like giving up the vantage point, but he's meeting no one he wants to like this.

 

So he sticks to the shadows, goes looking for someone more  _ receptive _ to the whole situation. Matty's old pals sure don't seem too keen on anything about this.

 

Keeps running into people he doesn't know, but sure as hell seem to recognize him. Figures they must be friendlies because they're mostly surprised to see him out and about. But he doesn't hang around long, can't abide by doing small talk, can only handle so many questions about his health, where he’s been, all that shit. Lets them know about the meeting and keeps heading on. 

 

And he's not really getting anywhere but he doesn't want to go home. He's got this burning streak of envy cutting through him, figures she's at home fucking Red. Got him all to herself and it makes Bullseye  _ seethe. _

 

The fun really only starts when he runs into Mary. Strange girl, even stranger that she was working for Fisk. Hated him one day, loved him the next. Always told him he was a pathetic, flighty, little thing.

 

But here she is, leaning cooly back against the side of a building, arms crossed. Never seemed to be on anyone's side but her own, but it's still worth a try.

 

Gets a bit closer, but not too close, she's a real firecracker, "Mary, been a while, hasn't it?"

 

"Oh," she looks him over, brow furrowed, "Do I know you?"

 

And it's funny, they're awful alike even if she seems to hate it, so he pulls his mask off and hangs around a second, doesn't say anything.

 

Recognition is slow and he can watch it on her face, watches the way her lips curl into a snarl and her eyes go wild.

 

"You here for work or  _ pleasure _ , Bulls?" She smiles, shows off all her teeth so he knows damn well what she is.

 

"Work. Same as always," he's been through this song and dance more times than he can count, figures she'd know by now, "Lookin' for Wesley."

 

"And you think I can _help_?" She smirks, like he said something awful funny, " _Sure_. Let's talk awhile. Just like _old_ _times_."

 

There's something about the way she says it that sets him to wringing his hands, and she notices it too, laughs with her head thrown back, "Need a light?"

 

 "Don't smoke much, these days," he says, awful sheepish-like.

 

"You stupid little freak, you really think they're gonna looooove you? No one ever loves you,  _ idiot _ , they fuck you and they fuck you and then they fuck you over."

 

He chokes back the taste of bile, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

 

"Everyone  _ knows _ you're working with Elektra and Daredevil. You're such a needy little thing, you wouldn't be doing this if there wasn't something in it for you and there's no way there's money in this.  And you never, ever, shut the fuck up about Red  _ this  _ and Red  _ that  _ and I never once managed to  _ get _ you. Wonder why  _ that _ is?" 

 

That gets her laughing again, like she already knows the answer. 

 

He's never been too keen on Mary when she's like this, but he's used to it by now. Usually worked alone, but he's hung around with her when they were both on retainer enough times for this conversation to fit. 

 

Still, he regrets taking the mask off. Makes him feel real exposed and he's stuck twisting it between his hands. Makes it easier to see how gaunt he is, how dark the rings under his eyes are. He'd bite  back, say anything to make her squirm the same way he is, but she's got a knack for getting him tripped up. And she's not wrong, either, which makes all this worse.

 

She snaps her fingers in front of his face, makes him jump, "You always were weak, Bulls. Always wanted someone to take caaaare of you."

 

"Fuck off, Mary."

 

"You're the one that was so  _ desperate  _ to talk to me, baby," she croons, "Came right up to me when I was just standing here. Don't you know you better than to approach a girl out at night?"

 

"Fine. You caught me," he growls, hands curled to fists at his side, "I'm in it for Red and he's probably back home fucking his  _ girl  _ right about now _.  _ Happy, huh? That what you wanted to hear?"

 

She looks him right in the eye, smiling like she's possessed, "Bulls, baby, that's always how it's gonna be."

 

"Are you gonna help me out so I don't have to go back tonight or  _ not?" _

 

"Wesley's booooring, I didn't care to keep up with him."

 

That guts him more than he thought it would, makes him feel hopeless and empty and lost.

 

"Well, if you think about it, get the word out that Kingpin's lookin' for a meeting."

 

"Oh, so  _ you're  _ the  _ Kingpin  _ now?" She almost doubles over laughing, "I've never seen you take initiative in your  _ life. _ "

 

"It's the three of us, actually," he doesn't mean to say it, hasn't even admitted it to himself 'til now, "We're runnin' this together."

 

"Just keep telling yourself that, Bulls."

 

She's trying to push him, always has been good at getting people to talk. But she doesn't  _ get  _ to know about this, doesn't get to know about sleeping between the two of them or how much he wants this.

 

She doesn't  _ know _ them, doesn't know that they wouldn't keep him around if this was nothing. At least, he's put all his money on it being something. Couldn't take it if they were just doing this to keep  him chained up.

 

It's not just work, otherwise they wouldn't let him do this and they're supposed to be the "good" guys so he's really fucking hoping they aren't just stringing him along.

 

"Wasted all my damn time for nothin'," he growls under his breath.

 

"I didn't  _ make _ you stay, baby, you know my charm don't work on you."

 

That makes his blood boil, but he'll be here all night if he gets in an argument and he'd rather pick a scrap he'll win. Almost makes him laugh when he realizes it, like Red's managed to tame the self destructive streak in him.

 

And he's in a mood now. Kinda mood where he can do what he knows Handsome wants him to. He figures that they're the epicenter, even if no one knows right where they are, friendlies stay close unless they've got orders. So he walks as far from their apartment as he's willing to go, one relatively straight path through the back alleys.

 

Picks one unlucky sucker, recognizes him from somewhere or another, figures they were sparring partners one way or another. 

 

"You with us or against us?"

 

Bullseye figures he already knows the answer; got a gun holstered on his hip and there's a stain, dark enough to be blood, on the wall next to him. Purse at his feet, too, contents strewn around him.

 

"You three sure as shit ain't Fisk. Never liked him but at least he had  _ sense,"  _ the man spits at Bullseye's feet, "Your  _ boyfriend  _ fancies you three cops."

 

He's been off the streets too long. Everyone's forgotten who he is, isn't scared of him anymore and now they're getting ballsy. So he leans against the wall, right next to the man. Picks at his teeth with  his nails.

 

"Run."

 

The man gives him a blank look, so he shoos him along, "Go on, run for me."

 

That gets the man laughing, but obviously the fucker decides it's better to humor him 'cos he does it. Bullseye crouches down, palms a nail from the asphalt.

 

Goes about a block before calling over his shoulder, "Knew you'd gone soft! Knew it soon as I--"

 

He flicks the nail from his perch on the ground, hits the man in the back of the knee. If he makes the shot, and he always does, it'll go through the soft flesh at the back, cut through the meniscus, might even hit the kneecap. Won't go quite through, though. He made sure of that.

 

The fucker screams, desperate and clawing like he's just been shot. But that doesn't stop him, just slows him down a hair. At least now he's actually  _ trying  _ to run, doesn't do much though. Bullseye doesn't even have to break a sweat to catch up to him.

 

"Don't be like that," he coos, "Won't kill you. Better hope you don't get tetanus, though."

 

"You're fucking  _ crazy." _

 

"Naw, I just don't like you."

 

And the man sets off running again, whimpering all quiet-like, as if he actually took Bullseye's words to heart. He'd leave it like this, but he's got work to do. Sidles on up to the man again and throws a hand over his shoulder like they're  _ real _ good pals.

 

"Don't let me down now, this isn’t a social call. I'm lookin' for Wesley. Would you happen to know where he is?"

 

"F-f-ffuck you."

 

That gets him frowning. Shock shouldn't be setting in quite yet but the man's shaking like a leaf. Probably needs Bullseye to keep on standing.

 

"Don't make me ask you again!" 

 

He rarely does work like this, he  _ is  _ an assassin after all, but it's easy when he's in a mood like this. Pathetic fucker shivering against him doesn't seem too keen on saying much of anything, so he lazily reaches for one of the knives on his belt.

 

Drags it slowly over the man's jawline with his spare hand, it just wouldn't do if his source up and fell over, so he's still gotta keep him vertical. Bullseye's just grazing the skin, sharp enough to draw blood but he's not looking for any lasting damage.

 

"Ready to cooperate with me?"

 

The man nods, kind of jerky and frantic, just adds a couple new cuts on his cheek.

 

"Okay, I'm gonna ask you again, in case you  _ forgot _ the question: you seen hide or hair of Wesley--you know him, funny guy, Fisk's lapdog, kept on actin' like this is a business--of late?"

 

"The, the, uh," the sucker shudders like he's liable to seize up, "Hand put him up in a hotel, waiting to fly him out."

 

"Now we're getting somewhere!" He claps the man on the back, damn near knocks him over, "Now, you're gonna do me a favor, alright? You're gonna tell whatever little birdie told you about the hotel that Kingpin's lookin' for a meeting with Wesley. Can you do that for me?"

 

"Yessir."

 

He damn near scowls at that, never been too keen on being the one in charge. Makes his skin crawl something awful. But he figures he’s gotta be in charge, partway, if it's a joint effort.

 

And he's not so kind as to make sure the man gets on alright. Just lets him go and watches a second to make sure he doesn't collapse before waving and heading on his way. Wipes the bloody knife against his thigh until it’s clean enough to go back on his belt.

 

Doesn't bother with going after anyone else, he's got information and the sun's not quite rising yet and he'd love to get some sleep for once. If he’s gonna be working from here on out, he needs all the rest he can get. So he makes his way back home. Gonna be a whole hell of a lot easier to pin down the type of hotel Wesley'd ask for and that oughta bring them one step closer to a meeting.


	5. part v

When he gets in, Red and Handsome are already settled in for the night. Naked, both of them, from what he can tell in the low light. Means he was right and he's more than a little jealous, but he's just gotta move on. Has the kind of information they  _ need  _ him for.

 

So he starts stripping down and Matty looks over his way, makes him feel awful exposed.

 

"Didn't kill anyone," he whispers, "Just needed a little persuasion."

 

He's not sure if Red can smell the blood on his knife, but either way, he's telling the truth. And Matty knows it too, settles back down while he finishes getting undressed.

 

Now, he's in the mood to test things out, wants to see how far he can go. So he lingers around a second, trying to work up his nerve, before he climbs into the bed, naked as the two of them.

 

Matty doesn't say jack shit, which is real nice. They gotta press together real close to all fit and Red's warm, soft and pliable in that kind of tired way.

 

"You were good for me?" Red asks, real soft and breathy.

 

Thumbs over Bullseye's lips all while saying it and there's nothing he hates more than how much it gets to him, like Red gets off on getting him riled up.

 

And if he doesn't stay irritated, he might start thinking this is a good idea, so he scowls, "Already told you I didn't kill anyone."

 

"That you did."

 

Then, Red tips his chin up and steals a kiss, grazing teeth against his lower lip. Must be able to tell that he's not into it, though, 'cos it's awful short.

 

"'Lektra not doin' it for you anymore, Red?"

 

" _ Bullseye,"  _ Matty hisses, like he's offended at the insinuation.

 

He could really make Red squirm if he wanted to, could tell him all about how he spent the night thinking about the two of them, what he'd do to Red if he could. But it's already precarious, high-wire balancing act.

 

It's  _ her _ fault anyway, keeps on hearing her going on and on and on about how Red just wants him compliant. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, dead set on ruining his fucking life.

 

“I’m just trying to play along, no need to get mean,” Red adds, still awful pissed off.

 

That’s almost enough to get him mad, but he’s trying to be good these days, “Don’t want you to fuckin’ ‘ _ play along,’  _ Red,  _ god _ .”

 

“What  _ do  _ you want, then? Because I’d love to be  _ enlightened.” _

 

Figures what he really wants is Red, and not  _ just  _ Red, but Red wanting him just the same. But he’s not gonna say that, no, that’s just opening him up to a killing blow.

 

“Not in the mood t’night,  _ Matty _ , and your girlfriend’s right here.”

 

He twists around after that, keeps his bare back pressed against Red’s torso. Hates how much he settles into it when Matty wraps his arms around Bullseye’s middle and kisses the top of his head. Almost makes him think that Red might actually get something out of this. But he’s got an itching feeling that he might just be another warm body, always figured Red was the greedy type.

 

It’s a cruel fucking joke, how hard it is to fall asleep when Red’s this close to him. Sun’s already starting to come up and all he can think about is how much he wants to stay like this forever, wants it to be something fucking  _ real _ .

 

* * *

He’s not sure what time it is when Red starts snoring against his neck. Eyes are heavy, real reluctant to let him blink, and the sun’s streaming into the room in full force. Matty’s got a leg tucked in between Bullseye’s thighs and if this wasn’t so goddamn perfect, so gentle and unsteady, it might be enough to get him  _ all _ riled up.

 

Red’s got one hand slung over his hip and the other pressed against his chest but there’s something awful chaste about it, just makes him feel nice and warm and he barely wants to breathe, like it might throw this whole situation off kilter.

 

Worst of all, he thinks he’s as good as dead. Might as well be head over fucking heels because he’s pretty sure he’s in  _ love.  _ He’s hoping it’s just the sunlight and how close they are--like they’d be one person if they got any closer--that’s getting to him. Probably isn’t, otherwise he wouldn’t be so dead set on being  _ good  _ for Red.

 

It’d make him sick if he wasn’t going about it for all the wrong reasons. Just wants to get Red like this, every second of every day, all soft and sweet and so turned around that he isn’t even disgusted by what he’s doing. 

 

Elektra slips out of bed a short while later. Doesn’t even say anything about the two of them, small mercies and all that. Matty shifts behind him when she crosses the room, but never quite makes it around to letting go.

 

Just starts tracing lazy, arcing circles on his stomach. It’s almost too much, makes him shiver every time Red’s fingers makes it a mite too low. Elektra’s not in the room anymore and it’d be oh so very easy to let Red’s hand make its way down between his legs. He’s good at keeping quiet, anyway, might even let Matty put his fingers in his mouth, sure seemed keen on it last night.

 

But he hasn’t forgotten about the  _ last  _ time, still kind of raw and aching whenever he thinks about it too long.

 

“Why’dya only try this when I’m pissed at you?” He whispers, laughs like it’s a private sort of joke.

 

Red stops what he’s doing. Damn near drives him crazy, though, now that the touch is gone. But he’s sticking to his guns, not gonna be that  _ easy.  _ He’s got some self respect, even if it doesn’t seem like it.

 

“I haven’t tried this, not until now.”

 

“Well you’re awful eager now, aren’t you? Thought you Catholic boys liked takin’ things slow.”

 

Matty laughs, really, properly laughs at that, “I think at this point I’ve lapsed. And trying to, uh,  _ well-- _ ”

 

“Jack me off?” Bullseye snorts, kind of half smiling.

 

“--First thing in the morning is the least of my sins these days.”

 

“Jesus, Red, I can’t believe I only rank a step higher than ‘letting your girlfriend decapitate someone’. Think your moral compass is busted.”

 

"Well, you're not  _ right  _ above that."

 

He says it so matter of fact that Bullseye almost laughs, but he figures Red isn't joking. Has to be some truth to it, 'cos he's  _ here. _ And maybe he's a little bit frustrated at present, but Matty's really perfect like this.

 

Red doesn't protest when Bullseye takes the hand on his belly in his own, circling his thumbs over the calloused skin on Matty's palm.

 

"I should've done this a long time ago," Matty says, agonizingly steady, "Might have saved the world a load of trouble."

 

Funny thing is, he can't tell if Red's right. He's always wanted  _ this,  _ isn't delusional enough to deny it. But he's never been one for shacking up with anyone and it woulda driven him up the wall if Red decided to play house right away. Really did hate him there, for a while, too.

 

Probably would've killed Red if he'd just up and decided to shove Bullseye against a wall and kiss him senseless.

 

He grits his teeth, "Wouldn'ta worked out before now."

 

"You're probably right."

 

The morning's really gone south. There's nothing left of the feeling he was all wrapped up in when Matty was still asleep. So he pulls out of Red's arms, rolls out of bed. Grabs a robe off the end of the bed, figures it's Matty's because  _ he's  _ never been one for that type of thing and Elektra's got enough hair to make it redundant. Wraps it around himself enough to be considered decent, as if Red could see him or Elektra would do much of anything other than stare at him until he starts to squirm.

 

Red just lets him leave, too, and he slinks out of the bedroom, headed off to the kitchen. Elektra greets him, leaning back against the counter with a coffee mug in hand.

 

"Did you boys have  _ fun _ ?"

 

"Wesley's holed up in a hotel somewhere, laying low," he says, ignores the point at hand, "And your boyfriend's a fucking horndog. How'd you manage him on your lonesome?"

 

She smiles over her coffee, kind of a devilish twist to it. Tells him more than he wanted to know but it's really his fault.

 

“Disgusting, I hate both of you,” he grimaces, waves a hand like he can push that whole conversation away, "But we've got sway these days, don't we? We oughta go talk to some hotel owners, make sure they take a message for Wes."

 

Elektra laughs, cuts herself off partway through, though, “Do you really think that we should merely  _ ask  _ hotel workers about the location of a man being protected by the Hand?”

 

“Well, we’re the Kingpin, now. Might as well start acting like it.”

 

She falls silent, looks at him  _ real  _ carefully. Makes his skin crawl and he pulls the robe closed just that much tighter, like the only thing that’s getting to him is the fact that she’s looking at him.

 

“Nothin’ too dramatic, mind you,” he says, just to fill the space, “Just throwin’ our weight around. Says there’s nothin’ in the city we don’t know about.”

 

“Fine. We will see how this proceeds.”

 

The ways she says it lets him know damn well that she’s not expecting things to pan out. She doesn’t know this business like he does, might be rich, might be dignified, but she sure as shit doesn’t know how the world works.

 

Matty slinks out into the kitchen, tail between his legs, like he's ashamed of how the morning went, "We aren't strong-arming anyone into anything."

 

"Easy, Red, all we'd be doing is canvassing hotels, tellin' everyone we want a  _ meeting," _ catches on the last word, but he's not lying.

 

It'll be a meeting, that's a guarantee. They have to make sure no one else is after the crown. Might not even kill Wesley then, might slip into his hotel room and take care of him all nice and personal-like. If he's feeling ballsy, he might even get Wes to swear loyalty to Matty, on the off chance he’d hear it all the way from home.

 

"I never would've thought you could be _civilized_ like that, suggesting diplomacy _."_

 

Figures it's Red's idea of a joke, but it doesn't quite land.

 

"I'm  _ plenty _ civilized," he spits back.

 

Elektra laughs, "Do not  _ flatter _ yourself."

 

None of them have ever seen him straight-laced, probably think he's only got one act in his repertoire. Which means there's a whole host of bodies they haven't realized are  _ his.  _ Elektra only ever saw him at his worst.

 

"You don't get this good if you can't  _ adapt.  _ Trust me on this. _ " _

 

* * *

__

He's halfway giddy at the idea of them realizing how competent he is, how  _ good  _ he is, whistling some sort of song as he gets ready. And he doesn't even have to clean up much, hasn't been beat to shit in a while. He's a mite out of practice, but it's not something you just  _ lose. _

 

Hair isn't all that long, but he combs it back anyway. He's a professional, just has to look the part. Which brings him to a stop, 'cos he hasn't got much to work with. 

 

Red's shirts would ruin the illusion, just ill-fitting enough that he'll come off as improper. Elektra's liable to skin him alive if he takes one of hers, but she's a little bit slimmer than Red and anyone'd be hard pressed to tell he's wearing the wrong kinda shirt right away.

 

So he tempts fate and steals one of hers from the closet. Figures it's probably that same blood-like shade as the rest of her clothes, it's dark enough to match and he never thought she'd be keen on neutrals. Looks alright if he rolls the sleeves up, tucks it into his slacks. The bandages might give him away, but with luck, no one will be looking at his hands.

 

And then he straightens up. Works out all the deep-seated cricks in his bones and keeps his shoulders back, even, head held high. It's the perfect blend of restraint and fluidity, not loose, not stiff. Kind of a weight to his actions.

 

He steps back into the kitchen and shaves off the edges of his accent. Careful, lathing it down to something small, easy to maneuver. It isn't nondescript, no, but it isn't the hybrid bastard child he's comfortable with. Something distinguished and more wholly New York, no tagalongs, no half-formed slur, all enunciated and sharp as a knife.

 

"Are we going to hit the town already, or will we be stuck here until nightfall?"

 

He's testing it, mostly, rolling it around in his mouth. He knows neither of them are ready to go; he's been hogging the bathroom, Red's in his pajamas and Elektra's naked, both leaning back against the  counter. Looks down at his nails like he's checking a manicure, but mostly he's waiting for an answer.

 

"What the  _ fuck?" _ Red says, nice and breathy and awestruck, makes his stomach do flips.

 

"It's not  _ perfect,"  _ he complains without breaking, "But I haven't had access to tailored shirts since we killed Wilson Fisk and it's hopeless trying to fit either one of you lot's shirts."

 

"Who are you  _ moving  _ like?" Matty asks, damn near  _ frantic _ , "How did you  _ change  _ like that?"

 

" _ Oh, Matty _ ," he says, real soft but he can't let it slip for even a second, "This is what I  _ do. _ The killing, yes, but I  _ change. _ You'll never see me coming unless I want you to."

 

“I suppose that  _ is  _ impressive,” Elektra strains on each word, like she’s pissed off that he’s good at this.

 

Still, it’s what he wanted, shock and awe. Any attention is good attention, and all that. And if he can be useful for them, well, that’s even better.

 

“Why don’t you two run along? Go freshen up; I’ll be right here waiting.”

 

Neither Red nor Elektra look all that comfortable, and it almost makes him feel like he’s done something wrong, but he steels himself. Can’t shrink in on himself, can’t go back to normal, not ‘til they’re done for the day.

 

“You have made your point, you do  _ not  _ have to keep doing this when we are not  _ working.” _

 

“I can’t simply  _ turn it off,  _ Elektra,” he says, hopes she realizes he’s telling the truth, “When it’s done, it’s  _ done.” _

 

She looks at him, real strange, like she’s trying to find something, and it almost makes him break character yet again. But he doesn’t, just needs to keep on being whoever this is, he hasn’t even ironed out all the wrinkles yet.

 

Now, he’s good at this, but he  _ hates  _ doing it. Hates that he can’t even be sure what’s the longest he’s ever spent  _ changed  _ because sometimes he’s woken up lifetimes later and realized he’s not sure where he is, who he is. It’s so easy, too, getting caught up in the patterns and the rules and the routines, which is why it’s so easy to get  _ lost.  _ Makes it harder to get a job done and done  _ right  _ when he’s  just a socialite, instead of an assassin wearing a socialite like a suit.

 

Red cuts in, like he’s found the answer to everything, “The sooner we get started, the sooner this will all be over.”

 

And when Matty heads off on his way to get ready, Elektra lets him take her hand and guide her along. It almost makes Bullseye feel bad, didn’t think anything could get to her like that but there’s something about him being able to do this that seems to rub her the wrong way.

 

Doesn’t matter much, though. You’re not worth much of anything if you can’t make it through jobs that set your teeth on edge.

 

He stays in the kitchen and practices movements. Practices changing his gait; practices leading with his right instead of his left, not just when he’s walking but in everything; practices how he’ll move around others, like he’s a force of nature instead of a shadow.

 

He'd practice the voice, too, but he doesn't want anyone to hear him, doesn't want them to know his process, or how he talks aloud when no one's around even if he isn't trying to be someone else. It's a weakness, maybe, admitting that he can't stand the quiet.

 

It's part of why he likes living with them, never is quiet for long. Can't go two yards without running into someone else. And he's never all that lonely; even now, Matty's finished up and he bets Elektra's not far behind.

 

Red’s cleaned up nice, looks like the suit from the party, which can't have been all that long ago, even if it feels like decades have passed since then. But he doesn't say much of anything, just hangs around like he's not sure what to make of Bullseye.

 

Elektra joins them a few seconds later, got a dress on and still doesn't say anything about the fact that he's pilfered one of her shirts. The three of them being together gives him the permission he needs to break the silence, couldn't do it if it was only two of them.

 

"I say we split off. We can cover all our bases that way and there's no need to be so insular, I'm certain we will do better as individuals," he's really far gone, barely even believes the shit he's spouting, makes him sound like he's some sort of  _ leader _ .

 

"New York has a considerable amount of bases that need covering,  _ Bullseye _ ."

 

"Well, it's a matter of logic, then. If the Hand is paying for his hotel room, he's likely on their turf. So we start there and fan out, reconvene over lunch, perhaps. You know, there's a wonderful place a few blocks down--"

 

He catches himself, might be more out of practice than he thought. But the practice was all in keeping his head above water. He's never been to that place a few blocks down, doesn't know if it even exists. And he's not supposed to be doing this here, Elektra and Matty aren't his  _ targets. _

 

They’re both looking his way, staring at him, or  _ through  _ him, something like that. Doesn’t make him feel good, like he thinks it oughta. No, it gives him that sense again, the one that says he’s been caught red handed. But this is one of the few things he’s good at that doesn’t end in someone getting hurt, doesn’t make sense why they’d hate it so much.

 

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts, “Okay, one of you two can pick where we’ll reconvene. Or, Hell, someone can just come find me, so long as we’re all back here for dinner.”

 

He doesn’t want to ask Red or Handsome to come find him outright, doesn’t want to admit that he might lose track of what he’s supposed to be doing. What he really wants to do is just get down to work, doesn’t want to fuck around waiting for everyone to be on the same page, especially when Elektra and Matty are both acting so strange.

 

“We’ll have to be careful,” Red says, finally, “Bullseye’s right, he’s probably in their territory, but it’s unlikely we’ll be able to just walk right in. I don’t think we should stray too far from each other, even if we’ll get more coverage that way.”

 

He nods, because whoever he is right now would. Wouldn’t be restless and ready to bolt just ‘cos someone’s taking too long to get a move on things. Could leave all on his own, but he doesn’t think it’d blow over all that well.

 

“The Hand will not attack us while we are in our civilian clothing as long as we are within view of anyone else. They have nothing if they do not have stealth and I do not imagine the vast majority of New York would take kindly to knowing of their existence.”

 

“ _ Exactly _ ,” he throws his hands up, awful exasperated with the whole situation, “Which is why we blend in with everyone in the lobby during the most high-traffic hours of the day. I assure you, I  _ have  _ done this before.”

 

“Alright,” Red lets his shoulders sag, like he’s surrendering, “Let’s go, then.”

 

* * *

He ends up splitting off from them about as soon as they enter the Hand’s turf. Decides he’s only gonna bother with the nicest hotels, Wesley probably wouldn’t stand for less and they can always go surveying another day.

 

He’s never much cared for nice hotels, just harder to make everyone look the other way, but he’s thankful for the crowd, makes it easier to disappear. He files in with around five other people through the revolving door, mills around a bit to see if anyone’s been following him.

 

It’s doubtful; even when he’s not playing a part, he doesn’t stand out all that much in his civvies. But it pays to be paranoid, so he checks and double checks and saunters up to the front counter.

 

The clerk perks up right away, doesn’t even have to ring the bell, “Are you here for check-in?”

 

“Oh no, you see, I’ve been trying to orchestrate a get together with an acquaintance but I can’t for the life of me remember which hotel he said he was staying in. I was wondering if you’d be able to see  if he was here and, if so, take a message for him?”

 

The clerk looks him up and down, must be trying to find something, but Bullseye sure as hell doesn’t know what it is. He’s used to the way people look at him when he’s out of costume, when he’s not playing any parts. Got a certain feel to it, which he knows like the back of his hand.

 

“Well,” the clerk says, “I can probably check and see if your friend’s a guest.”

 

“Delightful! His name is Wesley, comma, James.”

 

Either the Hand’s got the time and money to hire good actors, or he’s barking up the wrong tree because the clerk looks completely unfamiliar with the name. And the clerk still goes and looks through the roster. Takes a good while doing it, too, which either means he’s trying awful hard or he’s telling the Hand that someone’s asking dangerous questions. Could go either way.

 

But the clerk comes back to the counter, “It doesn’t look like there’s anyone under that name here.”

 

“Oh, well,” he frowns, just enough to sell the scene, “If he happens to check in, tell him that we’d all just  _ love  _ to meet up with him one last time while he’s still in New York. He knows how to get in touch if he’d like to.”

 

He doesn’t risk checking over his shoulder ‘til he’s already out of the hotel, lost in the crowd. He figures he’ll pick up a following eventually, always do if you’re out asking questions.

 

He’s still clean when he slips into the next hotel on his circuit. Pulls the same song and dance as before but when he mentions Wesley’s name, the woman behind the counter pales just a mite. Means he’s either here or the hotel’s on the Hand’s payroll and either way, it’s bad news.

 

He still leaves her with the invitation, waving on his way out. Figures they’re getting closer to the goal of this whole mission.

 

And he’s definitely being followed now, hair on the back of his neck’s standing up, but he still doesn’t break character. Right now, he’s not someone who’d  _ know  _ if he was being followed.

 

So he doesn’t look over his shoulder, even though he wants to. He just keeps on walking along, figures he could stop in a couple of stores, see if his tail gets bored, but he’s working with Red and Elektra now and they wouldn’t be too keen on him risking any civilians. 

 

But he’s used to this enough by now to know when there’s actually someone there, actually someone following him. And as much as he hates to admit it, the Hand freaks really do get to him. The one fight was more than enough to last him a lifetime, still shudders whenever he thinks too long about how they just melted away.

 

But that’s  _ Bullseye,  _ not whoever he’s being right now.

 

So he heads coolly into the next hotel on the block.

 

There’s less people in the lobby, which sets his teeth on edge. Lighting’s dim, supposed to be ‘homey’ or some shit like that, but there’s too many shadows and he can picture them all turning to flesh now. Even when he’s playing this kind of game, he can still  _ fight,  _ but he’s all alone and if there’s enough people on his tail, he might not even get a chance to get armed.

 

He’s half tempted to slip off to the stairs, head up to the roof and get the fuck outta dodge. Sure, he’s only made it to two out of god knows how many hotels, but he’s too on edge and he’s being  followed and he’s not ready for the kind of fight that’s bound to happen.

 

Already picked out five people that look like they might be following him, but it’s the middle of the day in a hotel lobby and he’s supposed to keep on being oh so very good for Red and he’s already fucked in the head, so he can’t even tell for sure. Might end up picking off someone who didn’t deserve it if he tries to make a preemptive strike.

 

Plus, there’s probably more than the five just out of sight, might even be fucking invisible considering how the Hand seems to work. And he’s already in the hotel, so he might as well keep on doing his  _ job. _

 

The ceiling’s vaulted, but it still feels like it’s too close for comfort. Despises that it’s this easy to make him almost break character, but he’s out of practice and his nerves are shot and maybe, just maybe, Elektra was right. Maybe he wasn’t ready to get back out on the streets.

 

But he forces himself to settle down, to even out, and makes his way up to the front desk.

 

And he’s waiting in line trying to stop himself from jittering out of his damn skin when he realizes that Red’s up at the counter right now, a few people ahead of him in the line.

 

He ducks out of line, excusing himself, and heads on up to Red. Has to be Red, got the same posture from the back and the suit’s about the same shade and his hair’s got that shine to it that says it isn’t  _ actually  _ brown.

 

“Matthew! Fancy seeing you here!”

 

Red stays facing the clerk, doesn’t even turn his way, “I’m so sorry, but, if you’ll excuse me for a second…”

 

And then Matty turns to him, drops his voice down low, “I thought we agreed to split up.”

 

“Yes, well, we  _ did  _ and I do have a reason to be here, but I won’t be able to explain to you  _ right here _ , seeing as we’re holding up the line.”

 

Matty turns back to the clerk, “Don’t worry about the message, thank you so much for the help, ma’am.”

 

Red follows, even if he looks awful annoyed about being interrupted, doubly so when he touches his arm to guide him off into one of the hallways. There’s a nice little alcove, doorway to some ballroom  or another, and he pulls Matty in there.

 

“What is it?” Red sighs, like he’s expecting something pointless.

 

“We’re being followed.”

 

“I kind of knew that already.”

 

That just leaves him feeling sheepish, “Well, I thought you might like a warning.”

 

“Consider me warned,” Red smirks, says it all dry-like.

 

He worries at his lip, hates feeling so goddamn useless, “How has your luck been so far?”

 

“Infuriating, people keep trying to  _ help  _ me, like I don’t know where I am instead of not knowing whether or not the person I’m looking for is here.”

 

“Ah, well, we’re bound to get the last laugh, aren’t we?”

 

He lets go of Red’s arm after that, didn’t quite realize he was clutching it for dear life. And he really hates how much he’s settled down just over the last minute or so, just by being alone with Matty.

 

“This feels so…  _ normal,”  _ Red says, half smile playing on his lips, “Like you’re someone I know from work, or a neighbor, or a  _ friend.” _

 

“A  _ friend _ , huh?”

 

They’re already real close and Matty just steps in closer. Makes him all but forget about the fucking invisible ninjas tailing him, he figures those can wait.

 

“That  _ might  _ be pushing it,” Matty laughs, “Maybe someone I met at a bar, not friends, no, but we’re  _ close.  _ Maybe even because we’re not friends.”

 

And he could be that, too, could be the guy at the bar playing confessional for Red. Especially when Matty backs him into the wall, kind of smug satisfaction knowing that Red’s never done this with anyone like him before.

 

Red rests a hand against the back of his neck, other one settling down by his hip, and he  _ whines,  _ “Matty, I  _ can’t.” _

 

“No one’s here to see us, trust me. The Hand is waiting for us to come up for air.”

 

“It’s not that,” he shifts his weight from foot to foot, shrugs off Matty’s hand on his hip and pushes away the one on the back of his neck, “If we go ahead and do this, more likely than not, I’ll stay like this. I’ll be your man at the bar, just for you, until I snap out of it and realize that’s just a pretty lie.”

 

He lets it kind of hang in the air, doesn’t move a muscle, and hopes Red’s as good a man as he says he is.

 

Doesn’t exactly want to look at Matty, ‘cos he might read something on his face that he doesn’t much like, but they’re so close that it’s hard to avoid stealing a glance here or there. It’s hard to tell what Red’s feeling, behind the glasses, but there’s this grave set to his jaw, lips pulled to a thin line.

 

And then, Red steps back.

 

And yeah, he’s oh so very thankful Matty didn’t seal the deal, but he feels guilty anyway, in some roundabout way, all twisted up and terrible and unclean. Might break character if he tried to ask Red what it all means, what he wants, what he  _ needs _ , even if the question gnaws at the back of his mind.

 

“I’m sure there will be plenty of time for  _ that  _ later,” he says, kind of coy but it’s something more desperate underneath it all.

 

Matty raises his eyebrows, looks at him real incredulously, “It depends on how long this fight’s going to take.”

 

“I can give us an advantage, but I don’t imagine you’ll be all that keen on the method.”

 

Red’s face goes dark, half of a snarl pulling at his lips, ‘cos at the end of the day, he hasn’t drawn the line, doesn’t know that this  _ character  _ isn’t someone who kills. By the time they reach a fight, he will be Bullseye enough to handle it, but now he’s someone weak and pathetically unarmed.

 

“Don’t look at me like that!” He scoffs, “I was  _ intending  _ to pull the fire alarm. It gives us crowd cover and perhaps, we can distance ourselves before we actually end up in a fight.”

 

Red barks a short, hollow laugh, “You’ll definitely owe me for this.”

 

“ _ Well _ , I’m saving your skin, aren’t I?”

 

He’s never been big on the business of owing people, would rather bend over backwards to avoid it instead of squaring away a debt. Which makes him a bit of a hypocrite, all things considered, but  he’d rather die than admit it. Makes his skin crawl, not knowing what Matty might want in return.

 

But they’ve gotta get out of this situation, so he saunters on over to the alarm box and flips the lid up, pulls it hard.

 

It takes maybe a second before the hotel explodes in sound. It’s rhythmic enough that he can feel it in his chest, only sound in the world for a perfect moment before all the stupid masses start to  panic.

 

Red’s in a bad way, though, white as a sheet and standing stock still.

 

“Red,” he calls out, can barely even hear himself, like his head’s underwater, “Red, baby, we  _ have  _ to go.”

 

“I  _ know,”  _ Matty growls.

 

And he’d grab ahold of Red and drag him along, but he’s not sure he could get away with that. The hallways are crawling with decor and he’s only unarmed as long as he’s playing this part. He’s always been good at thinking on his feet, doesn’t think there’ll be any more canvassing today.

 

So he’s Bullseye again, at least as much as he needs to be, and  _ Bullseye  _ grabs a crystal ashtray off an end table and lobs it through the window at the end of the hallway. The glass shatters outwards, lets in some of the commotion from outside but most of it ends up drowned under the blaring alarm.

 

“C’mon already! I made it  _ easy  _ for us!”

 

Matty lurches forward like he’s a man possessed, dead set on throttling the life out of Bullseye and he might deserve it, for an idea like this. He takes a running start, jumps up to the windowsill and waits there a second, making sure Red’s actually coming along. Then, he drops down to the street.

 

The window’s a little ways up, but they’re still technically on the ground floor and he lands nice and easy. He supposes Matty would too, on a good day, but the jury’s out now, so he settles on wasting whatever’s left of their head start making sure Red gets down alright.

 

His ears are ringing still, probably will be for the rest of the day, and he almost trips himself when he tries to stop Matty from landing wrong. Twisted around so he could climb down instead of jumping, feet braced against the wall, and Bullseye’s never seen him so uncertain.

 

Bullseye leaves Red leaning against the side of the building. Sets to gathering up shards of glass damn near hysterically. The last round of cuts haven’t even had time to heal and he thought he’d be done with this type of thing by now, but he never seems to break the cycle.

 

“ _ Bullseye,”  _ Matty says, all drawn out and strange.

 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, what is it?”

 

“Someone’s here.”

 

Most everyone on the street is getting the hell away from the hotel and it doesn’t look like there’s anyone around. Just sets his teeth on edge even more, ‘cos it’s not like Red’s ever  _ wrong.  _

 

But he needs something to aim at, can’t get  _ that  _ lucky.

 

He’s all listless and tense, pulled taut as a drum. Poised to attack, hoping he’s still between Red and whoever else is here.

 

Then, glass cracks, like someone’s stepped on it.

 

One of the shards he’s holding leaves his fingers before he’s even fully aware, tracking straight for the slight shimmer in the air. Hits the target dead center, right between the eyes, and lodges there.

 

Isn’t visible for long, doesn’t even hit the ground before fading away, and he gets the sense that this was too easy. It wouldn’t be this simple, more people were following him than just one. There should be others, but Red would  _ warn  _ him if--

 

Someone grabs him from behind, hand over his mouth. Starts dragging him before he even has time to react.

 

He bites the fucker’s hand, always did fight dirty. Hard enough to draw blood, or whatever it is that keeps them alive; it soaks right through the cloth of the glove. 

 

Tastes like fucking rotten milk, though, and he damn near retches.

 

It’s in his mouth, in his nose, in his eyes, like these  _ freaks  _ aren’t even alive, just decaying. Makes his heart twist itself in knots; he’s sensible enough to be terrified, not like Red.

 

There isn’t much he can do other than kick back at whoever’s got him. 

 

Dropped most of the glass he was holding when he got grabbed. He’s got one big shard left, holding onto it for dear life, slicing the shit out of his hand.

 

Probably only has one shot for whatever he’s gonna try to do, though, so it’s gotta count.

 

But he can’t do much; the fucker slides their hand all the way over his face, the palm covering his mouth and his nose, pressing down so hard he can barely breathe, fingers over his eyes.

 

Small mercies and all that. Isn’t trying to gouge them out.

 

Sure as shit doesn’t help much, though, because he’s real good at what he does, but he can’t aim like this. He can’t even think all that well. Just slashes out with the glass and hopes it actually makes contact.

 

The fucker tenses, goes stock still, and he’s half afraid he’s just gonna end up with his neck snapped. Might be more trouble than it’s worth like this, but it’s not enough to stop him from moving.

 

All he’s trying to do is cut anything that isn’t  _ himself.  _

 

Can’t even tell if there’s more blood, or whatever it is, because the air just reeks of rot, feels like he’s covered head to toe, stuck in tar.

 

And he must’ve managed  _ something  _ because the fucker doesn’t even let go, just sort of phases out of existence behind him.

 

His feet never really left the ground, but he still damn near falls once no one’s holding onto him. Kind of hunched over like an animal, panting like he’d been strangled. There’s nothing on him, nothing he can see, save for flecks of his own-- _ normal _ \--blood on Elektra’s shirt.

 

There’s probably some on his face. He can still taste it, ends up spitting on the pavement a few times before trying to wipe it off. And he can feel it, he can, stuck on him, but there’s nothing on his hands when he tries to clean it away.

 

“What  _ happened  _ there, Bullseye?”

 

He can’t even answer Red, just tries spitting again. And the blood feels like it’s higher up on him than it oughta be, but the fucker was trying to suffocate him, so it kind of makes sense. He tries again, tries to get it off the bridge of his nose, out of his hair.

 

“You’re not that careless,” Red says, real soft, “I  _ know  _ you, I know how you fight.”

 

Somewhere along the way, he dropped to his knees. Doesn’t remember doing it, and he’s hoping he’s not kneeling on broken glass, but he’s only half there, hands shaking.

 

“Matty?” He says, almost chokes on it, how fucking small he sounds, “Can we go  _ home?” _

 

* * *

He doesn’t know how he got back to the apartment. But he’s there, probably walked home or something. The only thing that’s important is that he got there. Matty fumbles with the lock while he just stands there, kind of useless and blank. And then Red gets it, swings the door open and leads him inside.

 

Doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s in a bad way. Something happened, something that hasn’t happened before, and he’s usually got a pretty good handle on all the shit his head tries to throw at him. Been dealing with it damn near all his life, but this was  _ new. _

 

Elektra’s already back from her route, standing in the living room looking right at him and he’d be inclined to say she wasn’t really there, but something tells him that she is. She’s got a thousand yard stare, cutting right into him, and it makes him squirm, like she’s digging into his skin.

 

“I couldn’t get it all off!” His voice is airy, fast and frantic, “I can’t figure it out! Shouldn’t be this much on me!”

 

And then he dips out from under Red’s hands, resting on his shoulders, staggers off towards the bathroom like he doesn’t know this tiny apartment like the back of his hand. He was just planning on washing the fucker’s blood off of him, but once he’s in the bathroom, looking at himself real close, he’s not sure if there is any.

 

There’s blood smeared all over his face, clotted in his hair, but it’s such a  _ normal  _ shade, looks like the blood on his hands, up his arms. But that line of thought makes his heart drop, so he sets to trying to undo the buttons on the shirt.

 

It’s hard, when his fingers are all tacky and his hands are shaking and his head is spinning and his cuts are threatening to open back up. Almost makes him want to up and cry, but he doesn’t know  _ why  _ he’d do that.

 

Only manages to get it undone enough to pull over his head. Pulls the belt out of his pants like he’s fucking angry at it and kicks out of them afterwards. And he strips all the way down but that doesn’t do much of anything, still feels like it’s  _ on  _ him.

 

So he starts the water running, pacing around the small bathroom like it’s a cage while it warms up. He’s getting more and more worked up, kind of frantic, trying to keep himself from peeling away the non-existent blood all over him.

 

And then he slips into the shower, stands under the scalding water. It hurts, spread all over his body and constant enough to be distracting. Oughta start washing up, but he can't quite get around to it.

 

The door opens. Makes his heart damn near stop 'cos he didn't even think to lock it. Getting stupid, getting careless.

 

Elektra slides in, he can't make out much through the frosted glass, but he can tell it's her. Well, he's hoping, really hoping, anyways.

 

Nothing's really helping; he's soaked through and through and the heat's starting to get to him, making his vision go all spotty. Still feels like it's on him, though.

 

He manages to start something, lathering up the soap for a while before mindlessly washing himself from head to toe. Arms, legs, all across his stomach, chest, and as much of his back as he can get.  Even washes the blood off his face.

 

But it doesn't help, doesn't do anything.

 

So he sets to scrubbing with someone's brush, dedicated and desperate. Starting at his shoulders, his back, working down. Coarse brush, isn't much soap left on it by the time he's done.

 

And he does it again.

 

A little more frantic, a little more thorough. Faster than before, trying to scrape it all off.

 

And he does it  _ again. _

 

It stings standing under the water, so he takes a step back, tries to avoid it. Figures it can't be a good sign but he can't, can't, can't stop.

 

The stall door slides open. Picks him up and drags him out and he damn near fucking screams but all he does is kick out like it'd do anything.

 

And she sets him down on his feet and he hauls off and decks her, hard as he can, before remembering it's  _ Elektra _ .

 

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he's not sure when he covered his face, but he's peering out at her from between his fingers, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

 

She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, blood from a split lip smearing across it, "I was not going to  _ let  _ you scour your skin off or  _ drown  _ yourself or  _ concuss _ yourself. Consider yourself lucky."

 

He's a sorry sight; a pathetic thing in the mirror, still cowering behind his hands, soaking wet and naked and covered in angry little welts.

 

"You should not have worn my clothing. I should have stopped you."

 

"Didn't mean to bleed on it," he whines.

 

At his side, the mirrored Elektra's face falls, "You  _ stupid _ boy, you do not  _ understand  _ me _.  _ You  _ taunted _ them, you came to them wearing  _ my  _ clothes."

 

He’s not sure why it matters, why any of this fucking matters, only real concern is that he’s still got the feeling on his skin.

 

"I can't get it off, I can't get the blood off," he shudders, the person in the mirror convulsing like a man possessed.

 

"The only thing on you was your own blood," Elektra says, quiet and cool, "There was likely never any other blood in the first place."

 

"No, no, nonono," he digs his nails into the soft flesh of his face.

 

"You may feel like this for a day. Perhaps for a week. Perhaps forever. I cannot promise that it will stop."

 

"What did they  _ do  _ to me?"

 

Elektra sets her jaw, lips pulled to a scowl, "This is only the  _ slightest _ taste of what the Hand did to me for eons, Bullseye."

 

It doesn't sound like one, but it feels like an answer. But her glare softens and she rests her hands against his shoulders, doesn't say anything when he flinches.

 

"It will be worse tomorrow."

 

"Always is."

 

She's testing the waters with her hands on his back, goes to straighten out his arms and he's surprised that he just lets her. Elektra leaves him there, just for a second, standing posed like a doll,  motionless.

 

She comes back with some kind of cream. Sets it on the counter and takes one of his hands and holds it as she works it into the skin of his arms. She's soft, gentle, moving a little at a time.

 

"You will not let it go this far next time, understood?" She says it almost kindly, like she didn't let him destroy his arms, his back for some stupid  _ lesson. _

 

Or maybe she couldn't help before then, if this is how she always feels. If this is what they do to you. It hurts, hurts more than he ever thought something could without leaving a mark. 

 

But they  _ did  _ leave a mark, got him to do it to his own damn self.

 

Elektra moves onto his back, working the lotion into his shoulder blades. It’s sticky, heavy, makes him want to wash it all right off, but it’s a distraction, at least. She doesn’t say anything, not when he  shudders, not when he sets to shaking under her touch.

 

She doesn’t go any further than working on his back, something he’s quietly thankful for. Just finishes up and rinses the last of the lotion off her hands. And then, she smooths his hair back, almost affectionate, like maybe she cares about him. Firm, gentle, looks right at him as she does it.

 

“Get dressed and come eat with us,” she says, awful soft of a command.

 

It can’t be time for dinner, not yet, barely spent half the day out canvassing, but he’s hoping he can get away with slinking off to bed afterwards. He’s tired, been tired for a good while now and it’s only getting worse.

 

Elektra slips out after he nods, real mindless about it. The fact that she doesn’t stick around means he’s not all the way on suicide watch yet, which is a cold comfort at best. Not like he’d ever do anything like that, though. Nothing flashy, no, he’s always been playing the long con.

 

So he wanders back out to their bedroom, starts digging through their drawers and the walls, well, they’re real thin and he can kind of hear Red and Handsome talking out in the hallway.

 

“What the  _ fuck  _ was all that?”

 

“Matthew, I do not believe that you could understand this situation.”

 

Bullseye pulls on a pair of underwear, ignores how the air feels against the lotion on his skin, the little welts. It’s pathetic, awful and miserable and oh so weak of him to get that lost. Not that it hasn’t happened before, but not in a good while. Hasn’t been that obsessed over trying to wash away the feeling of blood since--

 

“That’s bullshit. You don’t want to tell me something and I’m  _ done  _ with that. You’re gonna tell me what’s wrong with Bullseye  _ and  _ what the Hand did to you. I’m tired of all the secrets.”

 

“ _ Matt _ ,” Elektra hisses, drops her voice too low to make out most of the rest, “You do  _ not  _ want this.”

 

He’s not all that keen on the two of them fighting, almost gets all teary eyed over it but he’s half overwhelmed and half numb and the numb side wins out. So he pulls a shirt on, nice and loose, won’t press too hard against the scratches all over his arms and back. Smells like Elektra but he’s guessing it’s one of Matty’s shirts, probably took it a while back.

 

And he opens the door slowly, stepping out into the hallway like he’s awful uncertain about it all. When Elektra and Red see him, they go real quiet, stand up all straight and stiff-like. He doesn’t much want to look at them and the feeling seems to be mutual, what with how Elektra’s staring at the wallpaper.

 

He rubs at his eyes and yawns, standing around kind of sheepish and uncomfortable, “Stop fuckin’ talkin’ about me when I’m not around.  _ Jeezus _ , hasn’t anyone told you that’s  _ rude?” _

 

“We were not talking  _ about you, _ ” Elektra hisses.

 

“Yeah you were. I heard you,” he scowls, “And to answer your question, Red, some fucking ninjas fucked with my head ‘cos I was wearin’ ‘Lektra’s clothes.”

 

It's not the kind of answer Red's looking for 'cos they're just about the same and he can't abide by the kind of shit that doesn't make sense. Seems to like the  _ real,  _ concrete, nothing like magic ninjas and half the capes running around, though Red seems to do a pretty good job being okay with them. 

 

But it might be good enough; Matty doesn't push it any further. It’s not like he’s got anything else to offer, anyway.

 

And his head hurts something awful, doesn't particularly want to be vertical currently but he's not sure he  _ wants _ to sleep. So he pushes right between Red and Handsome since they seem pretty keen on just gawking around. 

 

Matty rests a hand against his back on the way by, kind of thumbs over his shoulder when he goes stock still. And normally,  _ normally _ , he'd be into it, lapping up the attention like they're the only two people on Earth, but he's frozen in place, heart beating out of his damn chest.

 

"Red," he whispers, stiff and hollow and so, so, quiet, "Please, just…"

 

He's not sure what he's asking for, honest to God doesn't know. But it's so fucking quiet, he has to say something. He can’t,  _ can’t  _ let it be that quiet.

 

Matty eases up, pulls back like he knows something Bullseye doesn’t, even while he’s worrying at his lip, frowning like he’s thinking of something to say. Stings, really, knowing that Matty’s  _ worried  _ about him and he’s too fucked up to even enjoy it, can’t even wrap his mind around it all.

 

Staggers on out to their little living room, off-kilter like he’s concussed but he hasn’t hit his head recently. Must be some other side-effect, something they did to him, but that doesn’t make him want to up and scream any less.

 

Feels like shit, but he’s used to this, used to how all the pieces fit together, even if it isn’t the same. Head hurts, can’t think, can’t focus, like a concussion; fucking tired as hell, all spaced out and vacant, kind of aimless, like he’s blacked out again; kind of mindless, confused, all groggy and uncertain, like when he’s--

 

Fuck.

 

Fuck, he’s in trouble. Maybe not right now, but he’s gonna be soon.

 

He settles down on the couch, hopes having something solid under him will be enough to keep him level tonight. Usually just holes up until the money runs out and then he either sobers up and heads on back to work, or he ends up out on the streets. 

 

And he hasn’t been all that bad off in a good while, like the brain surgery actually did something. Maybe it  _ did _ , maybe it’s the only thing that’s stopped him from going completely off the deep end.

 

But it’s different now. Now he’s got an audience.

 

Really drives the point home when someone trails a hand across his leg, like they’re just walking by, wanted to make sure he was aware. It’s gentle, real nice and soft, but it just makes him jerk away, curling up even smaller. Doesn’t even lift his head enough to look at ‘em.

 

He’s gotta be scaring them, like this. Maybe that would’ve made him feel good a couple months back, but it just gnaws at him, twists up his insides real bad.

 

* * *

Next thing he knows, he’s sitting at the dinner table. Head lolling, eyes half shut, palm digging into his cheek to keep himself propped up. Looks like he’s been picking at his food for a while now, but the memory just isn’t there.

 

Nothing’s clear, kind of fuzzy and out of focus. He remembers smashing their plates, fits in place all nice when he looks down at his bowl, remembers going out and finding Mary and how that got them to the plan, remembers the plan, canvassing hotels to find Wesley, and how Red almost kissed him right then and there, and the  _ fight _ .

 

Elektra’s watching him real close, like she’s taking him apart. Matty’s just got his fork and knife poised like he’s about to eat, like he’s waiting for Bullseye to give the go-ahead. The whole situation sure makes him feel something or another, but he’d be hard-pressed to put a name to it. Doesn’t feel good, though.

 

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head real quick, like it’ll knock everything loose and set it all back to normal. Then, he draws his legs up on the chair with him, one arm wrapped around them, hugging his knees in tight, the other still picking away at his plate.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, doesn’t look at either of them.

 

But he can still feel Elektra, boring holes into him while she stares. Kind of makes him squirm, but he’s a little too stiff for it to do much of anything. Eating’s not really going anywhere, either, so he sets his fork down and rests his head against his knees.

 

He can feel his own breath against his bare skin, “I’m really scared right now.”

 

And he doesn’t mean to admit it, not really, but now it’s too late.

 

“Bullseye,” Elektra says, nice and slow and even, “Nothing that you saw or felt was real. Nothing you are now seeing or feeling is real.”

 

“I know, I know, I  _ know that, _ ” he growls, digs his nails into his calves, “I just. God.  _ Fuck _ . It’s all over me and I can’t get it off.”

 

It’s a memory, kind of. 

 

One that’s cracked and warped, a million little copies of the same thing. 

 

More blood than he expected, and he was so close, and his ears wouldn’t stop ringing. He was shaking then, couldn’t get cleaned up, flecked all across his face and his hands, and everything hurt then, too. Before it was easy, before he figured he could do it just as well from a mile and a half away. Cuts out the blood, most of the time, if he’s lucky. Only happens when he’s expecting it.

 

“Can I be excused?”

 

And Matty sucks in a little breath, “What happened, Bullseye? What  _ really  _ happened?”

 

“I  _ told  _ you,” he whines, “I got the one you warned me about and then the other one grabbed me, so I fuckin’ bit him and I thought he got blood on me, but I musta been wrong ‘cos ‘Lektra says there wasn’t any and it smelled like fucking rotten milk anyway.”

 

Then, he laughs, real quick and sharp and frantic, “And I didn’t even see anything, didn’t feel anything other than him trying to suffocate me, and I don’t know why it’s fuckin’ me up so bad. I’m not even hallucinating yet, usually isn’t this bad 'til I start seeing shit.”

 

"Perhaps you should go to sleep," Elektra's all quiet and kind and it's about what he was planning on anyway, but the suggestion almost makes him want to stay up the whole damn night.

 

And then Red reaches across the table, rests a hand against the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in Bullseye's hair. He kind of shudders, makes this terrible sound, like he's threatening to cry, and it's pathetic, makes him feel awful and useless and fucked up.

 

Matty keeps rubbing the back of his neck, all sweet and gentle and he’s kind of whispering something but whatever he's saying isn't registering. He never really thought Red could be this soft, but here they are.


	6. part vi

At the very least, he’s got the comfort of dreamlessness. Ended up stumbling off to bed not long after Matty started rubbing his back and he was asleep before anyone else even joined him. But they’re here now, someone’s holding onto him and against all odds, his bet is on Elektra, and it’s dark, real quiet.

 

Something woke him up, left his heart jackhammering in his chest, but it wasn’t enough to wake everyone else up. So he’ll settle down, won’t be a bother, might even get to dodge some more questions. Can’t breathe too well, though. Wet and ragged, like there’s something slicked over his airway. 

 

He might be worried, but at this point, it’s almost passe. Just rolls out of bed and feels his way to their bathroom, getting by on little panting breaths. Doesn’t bother with the lights, doesn’t want to wake anyone up, just hunches over the sink and retches.

 

It tastes like blood, but he’s done this more times than he can count. It’s always a coin-toss on whether it’s a nosebleed or something worse, something internal, but he’s still kicking.

 

So he stays there, bent over and wheezing, mouth all twisted up into a snarl. He’s making some pathetic little keening sound and he oughta straighten up and wash his face off and go back to bed, but he’s more than a little on edge at the idea of facing his reflection in the dark.

 

“Bullseye, what on  _ earth  _ are you doing?”

 

He turns around right quick, still hunched over like an animal when his eyes catch on Elektra in the doorway, “Nothin’. Don’t worry about it. Head on back to bed, why don’tcha?”

 

“Not without you. Surely, you  _ must  _ know how this works.”

 

“ _ Jeezus,  _ Handsome, can’t you give a guy a little space?”

 

“No,” she hisses, real matter of fact, end of conversation, “What are you doing?”

 

He drags his hands down his face, “ _ Fine.  _ I woke up choking, thought I’d spit out the blood and move on with--”

 

“You  _ what? _ ” Each word is as sharp as a knife.

 

“I’m fine, I’m fucking fine,” he folds over again, presses his forehead to the counter, “Really, it just happens sometimes.”

 

Elektra throws the lights on after that and he sure as shit won’t admit that it makes breathing just a little bit easier. She sidles on up to him, stomping around like she’s leading a march. And then she stops, just kind of sighs, all drawn out.

 

“Bullseye, there is nothing in the sink.”

 

“What? No, no, I was  _ choking. _ ”

 

Now he’s scared, doesn’t think she’d be fucking with him at a time like this. So he straightens up, scrubs at his eyes a mite, looks at the sink and she’s right. There’s nothing there other than spit. No blood on the porcelain, nothing.

 

Elektra pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, “Please, come back to bed.”

 

“No, I… I don’t get it. Fuck. What’s happening?”

 

“Who knows?” She yawns, “It is four in the morning. I do not, in fact, care. My only priority is bringing you back to bed.”

 

And he really is tired, lost and kind of halfway hoping that this is all a dream. So he wanders back off to bed, already settled in when Elektra shuts the lights off and heads over. 

 

Which puts him in the center,  _ again.  _ And it probably doesn’t mean much of anything, but lately he always seems to end up in the center.

 

Elektra’s got one arm slung over him, damn near protectively, but that can’t be the case. Matty’s still out cold, sleeps like the fucking dead. Reaches out and thumbs over his cheekbone, watches the way his eyelids flutter ever so slightly, just to make sure he’s real.

 

If he was real selfish, he’d wake Matty up. But he settles for carrying on what he’s doing, resting a hand against Red’s cheek, tracing over the soft skin around his eyes, feeling out the ghosts of scars.

 

Matty always looks so soft like this, like it’s something private, a secret shared between the three of them. It’s harder to pin down what  _ he  _ looks like, what he’d look like when he’s asleep. Been beat to shit more times than he can count and been put back together at least half of those times. 

 

Fisk liked him to be presentable, and he figures it was worth it, but he’s more metal than man these days, all held together by pins and splints. 

 

Used to be stupid, though. Used to go out and get in fights, just another face at the bar, not Bullseye, not anyone at all. But he knew how to pick ‘em, never went after anyone who might actually kill him, even if it got awful close sometimes.

 

And Fisk had eyes all over the city, so he’d just wait for someone to find him, drag him back home or drop him off at a hospital or force him up to see Fisk and get chewed out for being so  _ careless. _

 

That was before he got hooked on Red, the perfect sparring partner, one that never would cross the line. Other guys, if you pushed them far enough, they could do it. But Red never would, no matter how many times Bullseye goaded him into giving him a fix. 

 

Probably could’ve killed Red, if it had ever really been about that. But it wasn’t about that, and now they’re here.

 

He might even  _ like  _ not being constantly black and blue, nowadays.

 

(Easier to admit that than to admit that he might like the softness, too.)

 

* * *

The next morning, he’s on his stomach and Elektra’s still covering him like a blanket, like the only way to keep him from getting up and doing something stupid is to pin him down. Might be right about that, but you can’t make him admit it. 

 

Red’s gone, though, and he’s got a bad feeling that he knows  _ why  _ Red’s gone. The window’s open, which sure isn’t doing his headache any favors, makes it hard to think straight but he knows well enough to put two and two together.

 

“Red’s gonna get himself killed,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

 

Elektra digs her nails into the skin of his arm, sure doesn’t seem to care all that much about the welts all of the sudden, but he’s one to talk. Figures she wants him to elaborate, that this is the strange animal side of Handsome, the one he saw in the alleyway that night. 

 

“Window’s open, Red’s gone. He’s gonna go do something dangerous.”

 

Elektra pulls away from him like she’s been burnt. Bolts out of bed and he rolls over to face her kind of lazy-like, catches her letting her nightgown drop to the floor. She steps out of it cooly, where it pooled around her feet, and sets to work.

 

Maybe he oughta look away, but he figures this makes them even. 

 

She dresses quickly, muscles pulled taut as she moves, tucks the sais into their holsters. Then, she comes back over to the bed, grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him up until they’re looking right into each other’s eyes.

 

“Stay here.”

 

“Where the fuck else would I go?”

 

She sets her jaw, kind of scowls, drops him back to the bed. So he settles back down, really wasn’t planning on doing much of anything, anyway. Wouldn’t be too good in a fight right now and Elektra’s not gonna wait for him, already started climbing out the window a good thirty seconds ago.

 

As much as it galls him to admit it, he’s worried. Worried that Red might not make it back, might end up broken as the rest of them. Red’s supposed to be the center, supposed to keep them balanced. They’re gonna spin out if Red ever loses it.

 

But things are good now, or at least close enough. Fingers crossed it’ll stay that way.

 

He could sleep more, wouldn’t be that hard to nod off again, but he figures he’ll feel like shit either way. So he sits up, tries to ignore the fucking ice pick in his brain, goddamn psychic lobotomy.

 

It hurts real bad, so bad he’s gotta stop, hang his head between his knees and breathe and wait for his vision to come back. But he’s been through worse, really has. Nothing quite like this, but he’s managed worse.

 

The apartment isn’t even as big as some of the ones he’s been in, but the idea of it still sets him on edge. Makes him want to hole up in the bedroom and wait for everyone else ‘cos at least then he’s got a handle on things.

 

They’re safe here, gotta be, since they haven’t had their throats slit in the night yet.

 

And he can see it, caught up between the two of them, glassy-eyed and empty, dead-weight of Red’s arm slung over him, Elektra’s hair all clotted in blood, wouldn’t even have had time to call out. Gonna be hell to clean up and nobody’ll even know ‘til the blood makes it through the floorboards. 

 

He’s done people like that. Nothing as intimate as slitting throats, but just as quiet. It’s easy like that. Nice and quick.

 

But maybe they aren’t the type to deserve nice and quick. 

 

Maybe they’re all laid out on the floor, maybe the room’s a wreck, everything toppled over and he could tell you how it got that way just by looking at it, if he could talk. Maybe it’s white hot agony, something slow and awful, ‘cos they’re good but this is the only place they got to let their guard down and it’s always easy when you don’t see it coming.

 

Elektra first, him next, Red last, ‘cos Red’s the one who’s never killed anyone on purpose. Least of a threat out of the three of ‘em, might buy Red a while longer but all that’ll do is make sure he’s alive to hear them die.

 

Bullseye doesn’t like it as much as the first one, the one where they’re in each other’s arms. He’d be alright with that, not a half bad way to go, better than he ever thought he’d get.

 

(Might already be dead, might’ve died a long time ago.)

 

Doesn’t matter much right now, though. Even if the fact that they’re all split up makes his stomach turn, like it might be on purpose, like they might not see it coming. Always is good to have a little paranoia, keeps you on your toes, but he really, really, can’t live like this.

 

* * *

His appetite’s all but gone, just hangs around in the kitchen and gulps down water trying to wash away the rancid taste sticking to the back of his throat. Doesn’t work too good though, so he moves onto the wine. 

 

Isn’t his kind of thing, but it’s Red and Elektra’s, so he goes with it. Doesn’t bother with a glass, he can buy them another bottle if they want, and he just knocks it back. Might take the edge off of things, might help him unwind a mite.

 

He sets it down on the counter, still keeps it close, though. Turns on the radio, ‘cos having something to fill the space wins out over trying to keep his headache manageable. It’s no good being all alone with his thoughts.

 

And he starts on washing the few dishes they have left, ignores the cuts on his hands. It’s something to do, something mindless, and he takes a swig from the bottle here and there. Makes him feel like a fucking housewife, even when he realizes he’s been bleeding on the last couple bowls.

 

So he starts all over again, makes sure he’s more careful this time. No tacky fingerprints, no smears across the porcelain. Careful and clean and methodical. Leaves them drying on the rack next to the sink.

 

He’s good, he can be good for them. They’ll know when they come back.

 

He stands there a second, kind of mesmerized by the way the thick drops of blood hit the soapy water in the sink, spreading out in waves like it’s suspended in the air. It’s his blood and it hurts, draws him away from the headache, leaves him stuck like that. Watching the thin line it tracks down his arm.

 

That’s what snaps him out of it, doesn’t want to get blood on the counter. So he wipes off his arm and pulls the plug out of the sink and keeps on nursing the wine. Tastes a whole hell of a lot better than curdled milk and he doesn’t feel half bad when he’s tipsy, kind of buzzing with restlessness.

 

But he got some blood on the ground when he was working on the dishes, wasn’t careful. Or a whole big pool, smeared all over the floor and it’s his blood and it’s  _ dad’s  _ blood and he’s gonna have to clean it up real quick. Or there’s no blood at all, it’s just wine ‘cos the funny thing is, they look an awful lot alike half the time.

 

Blinks once or twice, letting the floor come back into focus. Just a couple drops, wide and lazy and low velocity, nice and round on the white tile.

 

He laughs, kind of desperate and frantic.

 

Then he sets the bottle back down so he’s got both hands free to clean up the floor. Stains one of their towels in the process, but he’ll go out and get some peroxide and it’ll be just fine, just perfect.

 

But he has to stay here because Elektra told him to. And his money’s still all tied up, he’s got it, maybe. He’s got some of it still, all in offshore accounts, if he could remember how to get into them. Got so many fucking names, no one’s found all of them.

 

Maybe if he got them money, they could leave, go somewhere safer. Somewhere where they won’t end up dead, ‘cos it’s just a matter of time here.

 

Now he’s not nursing the wine so much as twisting his hands around the bottle like he’s trying to wring its neck. He’s nervous, real nervous, doesn’t know how long it’s been since Handsome left, much less how long it’s been since Red left.

 

Maybe they’re already dead and someone’s just coming to finish him off.

 

Can’t start thinking like that, though. That’s dangerous, real easy to get lost. And usually he’d pack up and take a few jobs out of the country until he settles down, but he’s not taking jobs anymore.

 

He takes a seat on the couch, doesn’t really relax all that much, just keeps on working his way through the wine. He’s just as good when he’s drunk, helps take the edge off, even if he hasn’t done this in a while.

 

The radio’s still blaring away, but it helps. Sure as shit isn’t hearing half of it, but it’s  _ noise  _ and that’s what really matters. Still, it’s not enough to stop him from jumping at every other sound that doesn’t quite fit, even the goddamn advertisements. 

 

Odds are, he’s hearing things. That’s always what it is, until it  _ isn’t  _ and he’s never been comfortable with those stakes. So he keeps on tensing up whenever he thinks it’s something real.

 

It gets him to his feet when he hears something like a door shut, nothing too loud, might not even be there. And he figures he looks awful vulnerable like this, but if they’re smart, they’ll know he’s never  _ really  _ unprepared.

 

He sets the wine bottle down, real quiet, puts it on one of the coasters so it doesn’t make much noise at all. Starts making his way carefully, moving backwards one step at a time. He’s barefoot, which helps now but doesn’t make him feel too good about the possibility of having to  _ run. _

 

Backs himself up to a wall, that way no one can get him from behind. Palms whatever he can get his hands on from the little table next to him. It’s Elektra’s compact, cold and smooth and weighty enough to be real metal.

 

And he waits.

 

Heart pounding away in his chest, barely even daring to breathe. He’s gotten too comfortable here, wouldn’t even be ready to bolt if things went south. He doesn’t have a bag packed, doesn’t have a plan, isn’t even dressed. Hasn’t been this stupid since he was fourteen.

 

* * *

The compact is warm, damn near burning a hole in his hand, and he still hasn’t moved, still has his back pressed right up against the wall. Just stuck there, breathing short and choppy through his nose, and waiting.

 

He’s good at that. Used to wait days for the perfect opening, just gotta let your mind go blank and your eyes catch on anything that moves.

 

But it’s tricky now, ‘cos he’s got a reason to worry about collateral damage. ‘Cos he might be just a little too antsy and end up hurting Red or Elektra. He’s never been one for warning shots, always is safest when he’s the only one left in the room. It’s the only guarantee.

 

Doesn’t want to kill Red  _ or  _ Elektra, though. It’d be the only one he’d ever regret, and he can’t, can’t let that happen. So he forces his hands open, so stiff it almost fucking hurts, and lets the compact drop to the ground.

 

It hits the carpet, kind of a muffled thud, but it still makes his heart stop. And he can’t quite manage anything more than that, still is locked in place, just waiting for someone to show up.

 

And the funny thing is, he’s never felt quite as vulnerable as this, as stripped back and exposed, ever before. Not once in his fucking life. Can’t even keep himself armed just in case, ‘cos he doesn’t trust himself enough to not react mindlessly. 

 

He’s such an easy target right now, deer in the headlights. Anyone could take him like this, much as he hates to admit it. He’s gotten soft, gotten disgustingly careless. As much as he wants this, honest to god he’s never wanted anything more, he’s pretty sure it’s gonna get him killed one day.

 

“ _ Bullseye,”  _ it’s Elektra, he  _ hopes,  _ but he’s never, never, heard her as furious as this, more barking than yelling, “You insolent little  _ freak!  _ I told you to  _ stay here!” _

 

And he  _ is  _ here, he’s good, he’s doing just what she asked, but he’s still frozen, still got his hands open from when he dropped the compact.

 

“Where  _ are  _ you?!”

 

It sure as shit sounds like she’s opening all the damn doors in the apartment, which just means it’s a matter of time until she finds him. And she’s not gonna be happy, but he figures he probably needs her to find him, maybe smack him upside the head and see if that fixes him.

 

She stomps right into the living room and kind of growls when she sees him, and he’s just barely aware of the fact that up until now, he’d almost stopped being afraid of her. Doesn’t mean to do it, but he ends up cowering when she comes on over, first fucking thing to get him to move since this all started.

 

“Why do you not  _ answer me?”  _ She grabs him by the shoulders, nails digging into his flesh.

 

“I don’t know, _ I don’t know _ .”

 

And she makes this terrible, anguished noise, nowhere near as civilized as her. It hurts, just hearing it, sounds like she’s being scraped clean inside, offal scooped out of her while she’s still lucid enough to feel it.

 

So it’s Red, he figures, and she lets go of him like he said it aloud. Turns on her heels and bolts and he follows, as much as he wants to cut and run and never look back.

 

Feels like he’s looking at the whole world fucking sideways, standing in the doorway to their bedroom. There’s blood on the glass, on the windowsill, streaked down the curtains, but he figures that’s not what he’s supposed to be paying attention to.

 

“ _ Bullseye.” _

 

He can’t really think, can’t really hear, like he’s been drugged but he’s pretty damn sure that’s impossible.

 

“ _ Bullseye! _ ”

 

The whole scene comes a little more into focus and he cocks his head to the side, trying to figure out what the blood-spatter means, “Yeah?”

 

Elektra grabs him by the arm, drags him down until he’s kneeling next to the bed, still kind of whining in between breaths.

 

“Look,” she hisses, wild eyed, teeth bared, “Look what they did to him.”

 

“Probably gonna have to cut him out, gonna ruin his suit,” he says, awful slow and distracted-like, “Gonna move him around too much tryin’ to take it off.”

 

And Elektra doesn’t do anything to suggest she’s about to move, so he aimlessly digs one of his knives out of the bedside table. Stands up and leans over Red and nicks the suit right around his navel, slicing it open nice and easy. He’s careful about it, doesn’t catch Red’s skin at all.

 

Not that you could tell, everything’s awful bloody.

 

Doesn’t look like he’s been shot but there’s about as much gore as a gunshot would give you. It’s all warm and wet when he tries to open up Red’s suit further, tries to figure out where it’s all coming from.

 

“Blade go all the way through?” He asks, even though he’s not expecting much of an answer.

 

Elektra just looks transfixed, watching real close as he feels around for the cut. It isn’t too hard to find, up on his left side, below the ribcage, forcing out fresh, hot blood with each horrible fucking  shaky breath Matty takes. 

 

And he can’t really tell how bad it is, isn’t exactly easy unless it’s one extreme or another, and the light’s not good and some of it’s already starting to dry, looks different than the wet stuff, so he  swallows hard, “‘Lektra?” 

 

She looks up, real quick, eyes wide, kind of scared.

 

“‘Lektra, I need you to tell me if this is real bright red or not.”

 

She doesn’t quite get up, just sort of hunches over Matty, inspecting the situation. He’s bleeding a lot, but Bullseye’s not too sure when this happened and someone’s gotta be the level headed one in the room. And she’s really quiet, like she’s considering things.

 

So he keeps his voice all nice and calm and says, “If it’s bright red, it’s an artery, ‘Lektra. Can’t always tell shades apart too good, so I  _ need  _ you to do it.”

 

“It is dark,” she whispers.

 

“But not too dark? Looks normal?”

 

Elektra nods, real quick.

 

“Well, he’s probably not bleeding out then.”

 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really, usually patches himself up when it comes to the small things but he’s been in and out of hospitals an awful lot. He’s always, always, always known his limits, knows what he can handle on his own and how much he can take.

 

“I think we oughta stop Matty from bleeding and call that night nurse lady of his.”

 

He keeps both his palms pressed real tight against Matty’s stomach, trying to keep pressure on the cut even if he’s having a hell of a time. Keeps on slipping away from where he needs to be, ‘cos of all  the blood.

 

He’s not even sure if Red’s awake, but his eyes are open and he’s breathing, steady enough, all things considered. There’s blood on his teeth, though, which doesn’t mean much of anything good and kind of makes Bullseye’s heart drop.

 

Makes his voice all nice and low and gentle, “Are you with us, Red?” 

 

And Matty doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move, which just isn’t right, doesn’t fit because he’s a stubborn fucking bastard. But he’s still alive, still breathing.

 

“You  _ dragged  _ him all the way here, ‘Lektra? He say anything to you?”

 

Elektra makes that awful, awful noise again, folding over until her forehead’s flush with the carpeting, “He  _ came  _ back. I found him here.”

 

The shudder that runs through him is so goddamn violent, he damn near lets up on Red’s cut. Could’ve done something, could’ve helped. God knows how long Matty was there, bleeding out on their bed, while he was locked in place in the living room. And it really gets to him, sets him to shaking, thinking about how he just figured he was hearing things.

 

The first time he tries to speak, the words get all caught up in his throat, leaves him with his mouth hanging open, almost whimpering. So he tries again, and it works a bit better if he isn’t looking at Red, but it damn near hurts to do it.

 

“‘Lektra, why don’t you see if you can’t call the night nurse,” his voice wavers and cracks and drags like metal across asphalt, “Please,  _ please _ , just do it.”

 

He’s not sure if they ever even bothered to hook the phone up, didn’t seem all that important up until now. And he sure as shit doesn’t know how to contact the night nurse, doesn’t know much of anything about  _ this  _ life.

 

And he doesn’t want to go far, so he just shreds the sheets for something to help stop the bleeding. Couldn’t get his hands to stay on the cut, Matty’s skin was too slick from all the blood. Sheets don’t matter much now, anyway, ‘cos he’s pretty sure none of them will even be able to sleep on the mattress again.

 

Takes a good while to realize that Elektra’s gone, he’s the only one in the room with Red. He’s not too keen on it, needs someone who’s ready for a scrap when they’re both so exposed, so  _ vulnerable.  _ But they need more help than either of them can give so he grits his teeth and bears it.

 

(His business has never been keeping people alive, not even himself.)

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, now that Elektra’s gone, didn’t want to set her off on top of everything else, “I’m sorry, Matty, you were here, and,  _ oh god _ , I’m sorry.”

 

* * *

 

He damn near brains the night nurse when she tries to pull him away from Red. Elektra catches his wrists, twists his arms behind his back, still blood-soaked as they are. Just holds him still with her chin hooked over his shoulder, cheek flush with his. Barely even struggles against her, just kind of whines, like he wants to scream but can’t.

 

She keeps his arms pinned with one hand only, snakes the other one up to his face, presses the palm against the side of his head for a second before forcing her way higher up. Like it’s supposed to be some kind of comfort, holding him hostage and pressing into him and erratically working her fingers through his hair. And she’s making soft little shushing noises, right against his skin, like she’s  mimicking the idea of soothing.

 

And damn it all, fucking damn it all to hell, it’s  _ working. _

 

She’s all but keeping him upright, not even talking to him, just making little  _ sounds.  _ And he can’t look away, doesn’t even know what’s happening, but he can’t look away. Figures Elektra’s feeling the same way, standing so close they’re almost looking through each other’s eyes.

 

The way she’s twisting his arms really oughta hurt but he’s not there enough to feel much of anything. Just watches the night nurse poking and prodding at Matty, and eventually she turns back, tells them they should leave her to her work.

 

So Elektra walks the two of them out of the room, ‘cos he’s really not even there, needs someone to move him, to keep him from up and keeling over. He's pathetic like this, hates that he trusts her enough to not just snap his neck when he's so  _ vacant. _

 

No, she just leads them both over to the couch and finally lets go of his arms, leaves him trying to work out the cricks as best he can. Can't even do much more than rolling his wrists over and over, still resting behind his back. He's limp, damn near doll-like, and the effort it takes to stay upright is almost too much.

 

And she pulls him down to sit with her, almost soft enough to be kind. Ends up between her legs, back pressed flush to her chest, head lolling back against her shoulder, eyes cast up blankly to the ceiling. She even wraps her arms around him, leans her head oh so gently against his.

 

"I can't stay here," he whispers, hangs on it like he hasn't spoken in years, but he doesn't make any attempt to move.

 

His body is heavy and useless and Elektra all but had to pose him like this on the couch. At the very least, he wants to wash the blood off his arms, but he probably can't even manage that.

 

"What happened," Elektra’s close enough that he can feel her breath, whispering in his ear, "To make you like this?"

 

It’s a lot of things, all leading down this one path. The course was set a long time ago, it was really just stupid to think he could change it. Nothing ever changes, not really.

 

He’s here because he’s selfish and he’s broken and he wanted to drag some poor suckers along for the ride. Wasn’t the one pulling the strings, but everything he’s ever done, every choice he’s ever made? They’ve all good as killed Red. Might’ve even done it, this time.

 

But Elektra’s still holding him when he’s all fucked up, doesn’t seem to even know what he’s done. Or worse, she doesn’t care.

 

“I’m gonna kill ‘em,” he drawls, words all smearing together, “Every last one of ‘em.”

 

Elektra shifts, just slightly, starts working her fingers through his hair again, “Yes, of course.”

 

Figures she’s just humoring him; if anything, it’s her kill to take. Same as Fisk was. But she says it so softly, and she wouldn’t be doing this if she wasn’t getting something out of it. Makes it easier to think, too, like he’s not quite as out of this world.

 

Still isn’t easy, though, but his head’s clear enough to kind of start piecing things together. Something’s coming, something bad. Got him first, then Matty, and Elektra’s the only one left. Always comes  in threes and it’s always the lot of them.

 

“It’s not over,” he digs his nails into his palms, can’t manage much more than that, “It’s gonna happen  _ again _ .”

 

If Elektra’s worried about that, she sure doesn’t let on. Just keeps on trying to soothe him in that weird way of hers.

 

* * *

He’s all hazy and listless when the night nurse comes out, blood on her scrubs and circles under her eyes and she reaches out all gentle, like she’s trying to shake the two of them awake. And he knows where he is, in their apartment with the lights down low and all the curtains drawn, but he also  _ doesn’t.  _ And he knows who she is and what this means, even when he’s in a bad way like this.

 

But he must’ve done something he didn’t mean to, ‘cos she uppercuts him hard enough to make him taste blood and Elektra ends up holding him back again, and on top of it all, they’re all standing up. Kind of brought a little clarity, too, feeling out the pain shooting up his jaw.

 

“Don’t try that, _ ever again _ ,” the night nurse hisses, even though he’s not too sure what he did.

 

“He is…  _ flighty,”  _ Elektra offers, “And I would have stopped him sooner, were I not certain he was almost catatonic just moments ago.”

 

The night nurse frowns at that, like maybe she might want to get to the bottom of all of it. But she doesn’t, just takes a good couple of steps back and clasps her hands in front of her chest. Must have something to say.

 

“He’s stable. And you  _ idiots  _ should really learn what a hospital is.”

 

“We will pay you,” Elektra says, all cool and even, “Quite handsomely.”

 

The night nurse crosses her arms, scowls, “That’s not the point.”

 

She just lets it hang in the air, like she’s daring them to say anything. They need her in their corner, though, and he’s willing to wager she knows that.

 

“Keep the wound clean. I’m sure you two can find some way to get your hands on pain pills. I’ll be back to take the stitches out.”

 

And she gathers up her things and heads out, like it’s not the end of the fucking world.

 

Elektra lets go of him as soon as the door’s shut, darting off to the bedroom. He wants to go too, yeah, but he’s more than a little scared of what might be in there, what might happen. And the door’s unlocked, which sets his teeth on edge, so he locks it up first and puts the chain on and tries to talk himself into going back there.

 

Red’s probably not even awake, probably doesn’t know what happened. But he might realize, might remember, and just tell him to go.  _ Get out _ ‘cos he finally knows what’s underneath it all, once everything’s been peeled back.

 

But the truth of the matter is, sometimes he likes getting hurt, ‘cos he ends up walking back to their bedroom anyway.

 

Matty’s all set up on some fucking makeshift bed on the floor, cleaned up right back to normal other than the bandages. Elektra’s lying right next to him, head pressed to his chest like she wants to make sure his heart’s still beating. He gets it, really, really does.

 

Still got Red’s blood all down his arms, all over his shirt, but he really doesn’t care. Just settles down on the other side of Matty, facing him and clutching onto his arm as tight as he can. And he knows they oughta move  _ right now,  _ but there’s no way that’s feasible, not when he’s so tired and his head’s so clouded, and Matty’s half dead on their bedroom floor.

 

* * *

Matty jerks awake with a growl, like he never got the memo that the fight was over. Throws both of them off him real easy, like it’s barely even a challenge. Starts trying to get to his feet and Bullseye’s just lying back on the ground, trying to stop his heart from beating out of his fucking chest.

 

Red falters, halfway through, but Elektra’s quick enough to catch him.

 

“Elektra?  _ Oh god,  _ they got you  _ too?” _

 

“No, my love,” she steadies him, smooths her hands over his back, “You are  _ home.  _ You are  _ safe.” _

 

"No, no, this is a trick, they're trying to  _ break  _ me."

 

Bullseye sits up nice and slow, figures he shouldn't get too close when he's still got blood on him, but he's lived long enough for this to be  _ familiar. _

 

"Easy, Red," he whispers, "Probably don't remember, but you came back to us, right on death's door and you still came home. The mattress is fucked, but that's alright, Matty."

 

"It just smells like blood," Matty's voice strains, threatens to break.

 

"I know, I know, we didn't have time to clean up. But we're here, we're  _ real." _

 

And he'd touch Red, to make it obvious, to drive it home, but he's not sure he  _ can  _ do that. Elektra's holding Matty, though, tracing over his skin with her fingers, probably has it covered.

 

It's all dried, flaking off of him like dead skin, and it's setting his teeth on edge something awful. So he finally gets up and kind of rakes his nails across his arms, sloughing off as much of Red's blood as he can.

 

Isn't doing much, he's gonna need water and soap and a new fucking shirt. Might just burn the old one. But when he goes to leave, Matty tenses up, grabbing at Elektra like he's actually scared.

 

"I'll be right back, Matty, I promise, but I gotta get cleaned up first."

 

He slips off to the bathroom, isn’t that far from Red and Elektra, but it still makes him twitchy.  Peels out of the shirt and just leaves it there on the tile, turns the water on after that. And he sticks his arms under the faucet, just tries to scrub away as much of the caked on gore as he can.

 

They’re gonna have to do something about the mattress. Can’t burn it in the apartment, might cause a scene if they try and take it out the front door, sure as shit won’t fit out the window. Also means they don’t have anywhere to sleep, currently. 

 

Probably can’t even buy a new one, which just begs the question of why the  _ fuck  _ did Elektra tell the night nurse she’d pay up? They’re hanging by a thread, not sure they’ll even have the money for rent next month.

 

And all of that matters a lot more than he wants it to, right now. He doesn’t want to think about it, but no one else is, and he’s still rolling it around in his head as he dries up and goes back out to the bedroom. 

 

Elektra and Red already moved on out to the living room, left the door open so he can still hear them. He weaves between the bloodstains on the carpet, real careful-like, doesn’t want to touch them.

 

Sure, he’s spent a few nights in a place after getting the job done, but it never seemed to feel like this. Never seemed to mind, so long as he shut the door and was out of there before the body started  to stink.

 

But there's something different now, this gnawing feeling of dread. And Red's not a body, all curled up on the couch with Elektra, moving and breathing yet.

 

He settles down next to the two of them, whether they want him or not. Ends up with his legs tucked under him on the couch, pressed right up against Matty, like he's making damn sure that this is a bonafide living thing, not a corpse or anything else.

 

"You had us scared there," he says, and Matty draws him in closer with an arm wrapped around him, warm and weighty against his back.

 

It's all the invitation he needs, stretches out a mite so he can kiss the soft skin of Matty's temple all nice and gentle.

 

"What do you remember?" Elektra barely whispers it, but it's still enough to make Red go stiff.

 

He rests his forehead against the side of Matty's head, eyes falling shut as he  _ listens _ . The silence  _ aches  _ for the longest time, slicing into him with each breath, but finally, Red sucks in air like he's about to say something.

 

"I was  _ trying  _ to find them, but they found me first."

 

He figures Matty's frowning, since he's making this low, discontented sound.

 

"I don't think it was much of a fight, I don't know. It's like it just  _ stops  _ there."

 

"Okay," Elektra coos, "That’s alright, darling."

 

"Oh, Matty, it was bad, it was awful, you were in such a bad way, doesn't surprise me you don't remember," he whispers it against Red's jaw, something just between the three of them, "Sometimes, it's gone for a reason, really, it is."

 

"I think, maybe, we should stop looking for Wesley," Matty sighs, body kind of heaving like he's sobbing instead of speaking.

 

* * *

They still haven't gotten rid of the mattress, not even after a week. Mostly 'cos there isn't much they  _ can  _ do with it, other than shut the bedroom up, and none of them have really left the apartment for any length of time. Don't even have to worry about food; no one's been eating all that much lately.

 

Red's healed enough to go stir crazy but not enough to get back out on the streets. Doesn't help that they've all committed to the idea of just letting Wesley go, means they're all aimless now. And he figures it's bad that they've gone quiet for a week, means someone's eyeing the gap where Fisk used to be.

 

And he's worried about all that, really is, but it's hard to put that much thought into it when Matty's face is pressed into the nape of his neck, breathing all steady and slow. Red's still out cold and it'd be so easy for himself to slip back to sleep if there weren't so many things on his mind.

 

He's the one who cleared the living room, pushed everything to the walls and laid out all the couch cushions on the floor so they could play like it was a bed. Even did it up in sheets to really sell the whole situation.

 

It's terrible and selfish, but it makes him feel all warm and giddy inside just thinking about how even now, even after all this fucking bullshit, they're still all sleeping together. It has to mean something  like this. Would've been real easy for them to take the couch and leave him to figure something out.

 

So he smiles to himself and kind of settles down into the moment. Doesn't even care all that much when Elektra gets up. Must lean down and kiss Red 'cos he kind of mumbles something against  Bullseye's back, and then she lays a hand against  _ his _ shoulder, lets it linger there for a second.

 

It's a tangled situation like this. Red's hers and he's Red's and they're never gonna be each other's but there's  _ something _ . Something in the way she touches him, like he's really part of this, not just something to the left of Matty's "mistress".

 

He'd get up and join her, but he really doesn't want to leave Red all alone. Even though there's barely a wall between the kitchen and the living room, he doesn't want Matty to wake up by himself.

 

Knows her routine like the back of his hand, anyway. Everyone's a creature of habit, at the end of the day, and it was easy once she was  _ comfortable _ in the situation. So he listens along and lets it ease the knot in his stomach.

 

Pretty soon he's gonna get restless, but he's hoping Red will be up by then. Might just have to wake him, even though he hasn't been sleeping too good of late.

 

Elektra makes her way through coffee and grabs the paper when it's brewing, like always. Pours herself a cup, starts on toast, settles down once the toaster clicks off. He could time the gaps between picking her cup up and setting it back down as she drinks, but he doesn't.

 

He can hear her thumbing through the paper; they've all been holding their breath waiting for the day there's a headline about riots breaking out again, some more end of days shit. It's only been a week, but a lot can happen in so little time.

 

He twists around to face Matty, careful not to wake him up. Face soft and slack, eyelids fluttering like he's dreaming, maybe. And Bullseye'd kiss him, if it wouldn't ruin everything, wouldn't get his nose broken 'cos they're all on edge.

 

Elektra finishes up the paper while he threads his hands through Red's hair, nice and gentle. Tries to ignore it all, the feeling that's eating at him, but something's wrong because Elektra's  _ stopped.  _ Isn't picking up her coffee or reading the paper or picking at her toast, just grinds to a halt.

 

And it gets the best of him, can't relax, can't push it out of his mind.

 

He sits up, fast as he can without waking up Matty, "What is it?"

 

"There is a letter," she says, voice like cracking glass, "Addressed to  _ us _ , among the rest of our morning mail."

 

He rakes a hand through his hair, "Fucking hell,  _ really _ ?"

 

"Yes, it is addressed 'to the care of Elektra, Daredevil, and Bullseye', I cannot imagine who else it might  _ possibly _ be intended for."

 

That gets him scrambling to his feet, still does his best to avoid scaring Red. She's already tearing it open as he makes his way over, heart in his damn throat. Hovers behind her, arms resting against the back of her chair as he looks over her shoulder.

 

It's fancy, real fancy, hand scripted on thick paper, indistinguishable from some kind of  _ invitation. _ Which makes sense, 'cos that's what it is.

 

Elektra reads it aloud, real soft about it, "You are cordially invited to an evening at the Ritz, additional guests will not be tolerated, nor will you be allowed to decline. Meet at 10pm sharp, in the dining room, the evening of January twenty-eighth. Your faithful host, James Wesley."

 

"Jesus  _ Christ _ , 'Lektra, they know where we live."

 

He wants to run, wants to up and bolt and never come back to New York again. But he figures that just isn’t in the cards for them, and he’d be hard pressed to make it all on his lonesome nowadays.

 

Still, doesn’t mean they can’t do something short term, and he  _ whines,  _ damn near  _ pleads,  _ “We gotta leave, just for a couple nights.”

 

“No,” Elektra states it like a command, “If the intention was to stop us, we would be dead. This is merely meant as a threat.”

 

“Doesn’t mean they won’t try something  _ else.” _

 

She frowns, lips pulled to a thin line, probably considering the odds. He’s always been paranoid, but it’s kept him  _ alive _ , whole lot longer than he really oughta lived. Just needs everyone else to trust him.

 

“I think we should wake Red up, see what he thinks,” Bullseye says, real small; figures they’re supposed to be doing all this as a team now.

 

Elektra nods, a quick, sharp little action, and he takes it as an order. Heads right back over to Matty on the floor and crouches down beside him. He spends his time rubbing circles into Red’s shoulder, nice and soft and slow.

 

Even drops his voice down, all careful-like, “Red, Matty, gonna join us for breakfast?”

 

And he figures there’s something in his voice that scares Red, ‘cos he wakes up right quick after the question’s been asked. Bolts right up, teeth bared and blankets all twisted between his fingers, knuckles white. He leans forward enough that he can run his fingers over Red’s arm.

 

“Hey,” he barely breathes, like maybe this way Matty won’t know he’s lying, “It’s alright, don’t have to get all worked up. Everything’s fine.”

 

Matty twists around, like he’s caught Bullseye red-handed, but he doesn’t look angry. No, he just looks scared. And god, oh god, he feels bad lying like this, even though they’re gonna tell him soon enough, but he’s never seen Red hurt like this.

 

“What is it? What’s happening?”

 

Doesn’t have much of an answer, not one that won’t make it all worse, so he just grits his teeth and keeps on smoothing over Red’s skin.

 

“The Hand knows where we live,” Elektra’s all casual, more than she oughta be, “Wesley invited us to the Ritz, and Bullseye,  _ as usual _ , is panicking.”

 

“I just think we should  _ leave _ for a few nights.”

 

Matty blinks, once, twice, “Well, we can’t do  _ that.  _ They’ll know if we slink off with our tail between our legs.”

 

And he can see the reasoning to it, really can, but he’s never been on for keeping up appearances. He’s a coward, really, but it’s served him well. Knows when to run, when it’s not worth it to stick around.

 

“ _ You _ can always leave,  _ Bullseye,”  _ Elektra shoots him a look, picking him apart, probably knows he wants to take up the offer, but they’d never let him back in.

 

So he stays still, keeps on grinding his teeth so he can’t bite back at her. No point in going off on his own, anyway. It’d just make him an easier target and maybe this way, it’ll be the one where they’re all together. It’s stuck with him, caught up in his head, keeps on turning it around in his mind.

 

“Y’know,” he says softly, not even sure if he wants to be saying it aloud, “The day we, uh, day we found Red, I had this thought, kinda like a dream or, or, or something else. It was the three of us, all dead, and it musta happened so quick ‘cos we were all still holding each other. And I just keep thinking about it, almost like it’s beautiful or something.”

 

He’s got his head bowed, but he can just  _ tell  _ that Elektra’s looking at him. Eyes are all welled up with tears, too, and he isn’t too sure why, but it makes it awful hard to keep the room straight. Which is why he’s staring down at his hands, resting in his lap.

 

“We aren’t going to die,” Red says, real matter of fact, but he’s focusing on the wrong thing, like always.

 

It’s not about the dying part. It’s about the fact that they’re together. That it’s soft, that they don’t even know it’s happening. They’re just sleeping forever, never gonna let go, not ever again. That’s the important part.

 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it, you don’t  _ get  _ it.”

 

Matty laughs, real dry about it, “Oh, so you  _ want  _ us to get killed? Is that your idea of beautiful?”

 

“I want us to be  _ together.” _

 

He really shouldn’t’ve said anything at all, but it’s too late now. Can’t undo anything once it’s out there. Really just wants to lie back down and go to sleep again, so he doesn’t have to worry about the fact that the Hand knows where they live.

 

It’s hard, feels just like the night they got to him, like he’s dirty and coated in this disgusting film, needs to scrub it all off. He feels watched and naked and his skin is fucking crawling, feels like there’s something underneath it and he has to claw it out, and it’s just the god-damned paranoia of his but he’s about to go out of his head.

 

Red wraps a hand around his shoulders, pulls him in all nestled up against his side, “We’re all on edge, okay? I didn’t mean to get you so upset.”

 

And he settles into the embrace, leaning right up against Matty even though he’s still real pissed off. But it’s not quite directed at Red, it’s aimless and it fills him all the way up, makes him all restless, thoughts pacing around inside his head like a caged animal.

 

“Elektra?” Matty calls out, “How are you holding up?”

 

Bullseye looks over her way, clutching the invitation like she’d rather be snapping someone’s neck. Jaw set, teeth grinding away at each other, wearing molars down to dust. Figures Red’s just trying to deflect, hasn’t said a single word on the matter at hand aside from refusing to let them run.

 

“Swimmingly,” Elektra growls, “Everything is  _ wonderful _ .”

 

He wrings his hands, over and over and over, “It’s gonna be fine. We’ll go meet Wesley and then it’ll all be over. Fucker wants us to meet somewhere public so we can’t hurt him, but that means he won’t be able to make a scene either.”

 

“It will  _ never  _ be over,” Elektra twists around, throws a glare over her shoulder, “You  _ idiot _ , you put us in this position.”

 

And he kind of shrinks back at that, even if he knows it’s right. Didn’t mean to take over, didn’t mean for them to take out Fisk like this. Just wanted to make the two of them happy, to make the two of them  _ need  _ him.

 

But Elektra does this thing that really catches him off guard, casts her eyes down to her lap, hair spilling around her like a curtain, and sighs and  _ apologizes.  _ Well, about as close as she ever gets, but it still makes his head spin.

 

“I do not want us to fight,” she breathes, soft and thready, “It is unfair to blame you for not knowing how these things work. You were, after all, merely a hired gun.”

 

“I think they’re doing somethin’ to us,” he whispers, conspiratorial and eyes wide, “Think they’re fuckin’ with our heads again.”

 

She looks up at him, kind of sad-like, “That is not how they work. It would not be as subtle as this.”

 

Which means the fight is all them and that stings more than it ought to. But he won’t let on, just laps up how gently Red’s holding him, thumbing over his arm real sweetly.

 

“We have two days to prepare,” Elektra adds, moving past the conversation with ease, “Perhaps we should take time to clear our thoughts.”

 

He's not sure he could clear his thoughts if he wanted, but it's a nice idea. The idea that he could settle his nerves, calm down, and breathe.

 

Elektra leaves the suggestion hanging, gets to her feet, "Matthew, come with me. We have to keep your wound clean."

 

They've been taking turns, as much as Matty hates it, 'cos he can't move too good, can't twist around without straining the stitches. And he figures Red's hurting something awful, since he's refused to ever let them get him some pain meds.

 

Matty grits his teeth and pushes himself to his feet, just proves he needs this when he makes a whining, strained noise. 

 

Bullseye remembers when Elektra stabbed  _ him,  _ spent damn near a week in the hospital  _ with  _ painkillers and yeah, he was back on the streets right away, but he's always been a masochist. 

 

Red is too, but this might be more than he could handle, 'cos it's different. Elektra hadn't been out to kill  _ him _ , just wanted him incapacitated, the Hand wanted Matty  _ dead. _

 

"I'm coming too," he adds, hates how his stomach twists when he imagines being alone.

 

* * *

The bathroom's a good deal smaller than the one in Fisk's apartment, but they don't kick him out. Even though they barely all fit, they still let him stay. Elektra turns the water on and Matty steps out of his lounge pants, boxers, and he rests a hand against Matty's back, peels away the symmetrical pads of gauze. One on Red's stomach, one on his back.

 

The cuts are still leaking, dark against the white of the gauze, and his blood runs cold, just sets him to worrying.

 

"Hey, Handsome? This all look like blood to you?"

 

She turns back, scrutinizes the bandages, "Blood and interstitial fluid, I believe."

 

"No pus?"

 

"You are far too nervous," she smiles, lets her nightgown drop, pooling around her feet.

 

It makes him shudder, too damn close to what she did the morning they found Red. He shakes his head to clear away the image of her nightgown on the floor of their blood soaked room, throws away the gauze and leans over to kiss Red's shoulder real quick.

 

Matty reaches back, threads a hand through his hair. It's soft, real soft, and the room is warm, and he's awful conscious of the fact that he's the only one still dressed.

 

So he pulls away, strips out of his underwear, his undershirt, leaves them on the tile too. Doesn't make him feel as nervous as it might've a little while ago. Doesn't make him feel as watched.

 

Elektra gets in first and Matty follows. He can see them through the frosted glass; Red leaning in to kiss her, Elektra draping her arms over his shoulders. And the door's still open, like an invitation.

 

So he steps in, joins in with the lovebirds and Red takes his hand as he slides the door shut behind him. They're close, real close; pressed into Matty, who's pressed into Elektra all so they'll fit.

 

It's vulnerable like this, but for the first time in a while, the feeling doesn't make his stomach turn. No, he just mouths at the nape of Red's neck, grazing his teeth over soft skin, snakes a hand around his waist while Elektra keeps on kissing Matty senseless.

 

Bullseye’s barely even under the water, catching the very last of it from where he's damn near on top of Red. It's dripping off Matty's hair, running down his back, and they have to get to cleaning up eventually but it's so nice like this.

 

Leaves a palm pressed against Red, so they're still all connected, and goes for Elektra's body-wash. Keeps his side pressed flush with Matty's back as he pops open the bottle, lathers it up and starts to clean Red's back.

 

He works over the cut, nice and gentle and doesn't jostle the stitches too much, ignores how Red shivers, sucks in air through his teeth.

 

"I'm tryin' to be gentle," he whispers, "But we need to get it clean."

 

"Relax," Elektra whispers, tracing her pointer finger over Red's chest, "Let us take care of you, for once in your life."

 

Bullseye passes the bottle over Matty's head, handing the body-wash to Elektra. Starts circling his palms over Red's shoulders, soap running down his back.

 

Elektra whispers something as she washes the stitches on Matty's stomach, but Bullseye barely hears it over the sound of the water. Just presses his face into Red's hair, soft, wet.

 

He shifts and Bullseye pulls back, gives enough space for Red to turn all the way around, leaves them face to face.

 

And Red runs his hands over Bullseye's cheeks, hair plastered against his forehead. Elektra wraps her hands around Red's waist, tracing her thumbs along his hips. When Matty pulls him in, kisses him hard, he can feel the back of Elektra's hands ghost against his stomach.

 

Bullseye tips his head to the side, moves in even closer, doesn't even care that Elektra's knuckles are digging into the soft skin of his belly. Just keeps on licking into Red's mouth like it's their last day on Earth.

 

Maybe it will be. After all, the Hand knows where they live.


	7. part vii

He doesn’t sleep for the two days leading up to the meeting, can’t manage it. It’s getting to the point where things blur together, makes the three of them in the shower together feel a hell of a lot closer than it actually is.

 

It didn’t really go anywhere, not that he thought it would. Red was in a bad way, still is, really, and he’s still too on edge to have any kind of fun. But it was nice, still fresh in his mind like it just happened.

 

He thinks about it sometimes, when he’s the only one awake, but mostly he just thinks about what could happen. What he’d do if this was all a setup, if someone decided to come and kill them right then and there. He sits still the whole night through and watches over Elektra and Red.

 

They have to know he hasn’t been sleeping, but they haven’t said anything.

 

And now it’s the night of and he feels like shit and it’s his own fault. His head hurts and his eyes won’t focus on much of anything and the world’s moving in slow motion. Can barely keep up with what’s happening and they haven’t even left the house yet.

 

“Hey,” Red touches his shoulder and he almost jumps.

 

Turns his way, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. And Matty steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, other one resting against the back of his neck. Doesn’t much like getting like this, spaced out and half-lucid and unaware of what’s happening, makes him want to scream.

 

“--going to be able to do this? You can’t just--”

 

He’s only getting part of it, keeps on slipping in and out of the moment. But Red’s buttoning up his shirt for him, nice and gentle and he ends up holding his breath while it happens.

 

“I won’t kill anyone,” he finally says, hopes that was the question, ‘cos it always seems to be.

 

Doesn’t want them to know that he’s barely there, that he probably won’t remember the dinner in a week’s time, if they’re all still alive for that. Figures it’s like this: if he doesn’t feel like it’s real, then maybe it’s not.

 

Which is why he isn’t going for that bleeding heart, sentimental, final goodbyes bullshit. He just lets Matty tie his tie for him, steals a kiss when Red pulls it tight. And it all makes him laugh, head thrown back, absolutely frantic. Getting dressed together like they’re going for a night on the town instead of walking to their graves.

 

He doesn’t think Wesley will have them killed  _ there.  _ That’s too messy.

 

But walking home? When they’re all settled in, tangled up in each other? Hell, Wesley might even have them poisoned, wouldn’t know until it’s too late.

 

Matty leaves him and Bullseye hates how he’d beg him to stay if he was just a little bit weaker. Red’s not even going  _ far,  _ just zips up Elektra’s dress and presses a kiss to the hollow of her shoulder.

 

And then they’re off, everything blurring together into one smear of motion. It’s a cold one, and he figures someone must’ve put a jacket on him ‘cos he can’t remember when he got it and it isn’t his one, it’s too nice to be his.

 

There’s something wrong, with him, with this situation, with the whole fucking world. He should’ve slept so he could stop this from ending badly, should’ve sweet-talked them into running, should’ve killed Wes back when he still had Fisk to hide behind, should’ve done a lot of things.

 

But he didn’t and now they’re here, and there’s more dread weighing him down than there ever was when they took the world apart. He barely remembers the walk, but now the hotel’s staring him down from across the street, makes him feel awful small. It’s lit by spotlights, nothing’s really dark in the city so long as everything’s fine.

 

And yeah, it’s the fucking Ritz, and it’s nowhere near the Hand’s turf but his skin starts crawling just thinking about what happened back at the last hotel. They got inside his head, barely even had to lay a hand on him, and it broke him down so completely he’s still picking up the pieces.

 

(Or maybe they just helped it along.)

 

“Let’s just run,” he whispers, worrying at the hem of the jacket, “Leave and never come back.”

 

Matty sets his jaw, “No. We’d leave the city for the  _ wolves  _ if we did that and you  _ said  _ you’d fix this. When it all started, you kept promising you’d fix it. Now’s your chance, talk Wesley into leaving well enough alone with whatever rapport you think you have.”

 

Talking. He can do that. He can talk his way out of anything, seems like the same logic would apply to talking people into things. So he nods, head heavy and thoughts thick, clouded.

 

* * *

The three of them get escorted to a table without saying so much as a word, the kind of shit that used to happen when he met with Fisk. And it strikes him now, finally, after five fucking years, that Wesley put together all the dinners.

 

The waiter leaves them staring down three empty seats in a completely crowded dining room. So Wes is fashionably late; or Fisk’s lap-dog is more of a threat than he thought and this is a trap; or this was a test. Wesley said jump, the three of ‘em asked how high.

 

He tries to stay still, tries to do anything other than draw attention to them, but it’s hard. Keeps on biting at his nails and he only settles a mite when Red runs a hand along his thigh under the table, private and soft and the only perfect thing about this night.

 

Heart damn near stops when Matty pulls away, though, like everything’s in motion again. He looks up, watches Wesley slide into the middle seat, right across from Matty. He’s got an entourage, which is  _ strange,  _ sets Bullseye’s teeth on edge.

 

Usually, Wes is the one right on Fisk’s heels, but here he is with two goddamn bodyguards, probably from the Hand but they’re both in civvies which makes it hard to tell. They sit on either side of Wesley, and once they’re all settled the man of the hour steeples his fingers in front of him.

 

“I’m glad you could make it.”

 

“Didn’t give us much of a choice,” Bullseye growls.

 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Wes looks him over, kind of stern, chiding, “You still haven’t learned the importance of  _ social graces,  _ I see? Oh well, at least your  _ companions  _ know how to clean you up.”

 

Matty leans in, drops his voice down low, “What’s the point of this,  _ Wesley _ ?”

 

“My, my, aren’t you suspicious? You’re the ones that asked for a  _ meeting.” _

 

“That was before you tried to kill me.”

 

Wesley chuckles, no other way to describe it, “ _ I  _ didn’t do  _ anything  _ to you. And here I thought you were a  _ lawyer,  _ Matthew.”

 

“Yeah,” Red speaks through gritted teeth, “I  _ was  _ a lawyer.”

 

He figures Wesley did it on purpose, doesn’t seem like much but Wes is a wily one, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth thinking on how the same could be said of himself.

 

“Well, we’ve all faced a great deal of change this past month, haven’t we?”

 

“Why here?” Bullseye cuts in, picking at his nails like he’s cleaning them in the hopes Wes will squirm at the disinterest, “Not like we’re doin’ much business these days.”

 

“I haven’t had a chance to dine here yet, since the grand re-opening was barely two months before you three decided to ruin  _ everything,”  _ Wesley slams his fist against the table, first one to break  character this evening.

 

“Hey now, wasn’t anythin’ personal, Wes.”

 

“ _ Wesley _ ,” the slimy little fuck straightens up in his chair and slips right back into the role of working man, “It’s Wesley _.  _ And you have to  _ learn  _ that your actions have consequences. Why do you think you never made it further than little better than an errand boy?”

 

“I’m a fucking professional,” he picks up the fork from his place setting, balances it on his finger to test the weight, “Don’t you forget it.”

 

Wes laughs, “What on  _ earth  _ would you call  _ professional  _ about your inconvenient, ill-advised  _ mess?” _

 

And god knows he’s being played but it still makes his blood boil. It’d be easy, real easy, to put the fork right between Wesley’s eyes, let the light go out of ‘em all nice and quiet-like while the three of them slip out the back door. But he’s got backup, which makes things hard, unpredictable. 

 

Still, Red must know what he’s itching to do ‘cos he kicks Bullseye’s leg under the table. The message is loud and clear:  _ play nice.  _ So he lays the fork back down, exactly, perfectly where he picked it up from. Couldn’t abide by anything else, and it’s always bothered Fisk, Wes too, probably.

 

The real kicker is, Matty reaches out and rests a hand against the back of his neck, whispers nice and low, “Calm down, Bullseye.”

 

“Oh,” Wes says, “I understand now.”

 

Makes him want to snap Wesley’s neck, want to bolt somewhere small and secret so no one will ever see him again. There’s few people that can get him like this, choked up on shame, heart damn near ready to stop. He’s biting through his fucking tongue, hands curled to white-knuckled fists in his lap, so worked up he might just die on the spot.

 

“Is he  _ good? _ ” Wes leans over, chin resting against the back of his hand, eyes fixed on Red, “I can’t imagine it, there’s little room in his head for anything other than depravity. Mmm, but he is deliciously flexible, and well, just look at your girlfriend. Maybe depravity is what you like. And that way, you wouldn’t have to  _ pay  _ him.”

 

“I’ll kill you, I’ll  _ kill  _ you, bleed you like a fucking pig right here, all over the tablecloth.”

 

It’s more messy than he’d usually like, but he’s frantic, about to lose touch with everything. And he’s not quite even looking at Wes as he’s saying it, pathetic little thing with his eyes trained on Wesley’s wine-glass.

 

“Ah, but you can’t,  _ Benjamin _ , that would cause a great deal of trouble and my associates here may be forced to, er, remove the three of you from the picture.”

 

He lurches to his feet, feels Red pull his hand away like he’s been burnt, but it’s all he can do to keep himself from slamming his head into the fucking table. Can’t think and it’s not enough that there’s already blood in his mouth, sliding down the back of his throat from his tongue.

 

There’s nowhere to go, ‘cos if he’s off alone, he’s liable to do something  _ stupid.  _ And he knows it’s stupid but he just needs the kind of  _ understanding  _ it brings, like all of the sudden everything makes perfect sense.

 

“Where are you going? We haven’t even ordered yet, Ben.”

 

“Gonna stand here ‘til I don’t wanna break my nose anymore,” he chokes out, isn’t sure why he’s explaining it, why he’s letting Red and Elektra know he’s this fucked up, this fractured.

 

“There is not any reason in keeping Bullseye here,” Handsome cuts in, “He is only a hired gun, afterall.”

 

She’s being  _ kind  _ again, in that weird twisted up way of hers. But there isn’t enough money between the three of them to cover his lowest possible rate and odds are, Wes knows it. Knows she’s giving him an out.

 

“He’s always  _ so  _ dramatic,  _ dear _ , you must know that by now.”

 

Elektra lets out a low growl from the back of her throat, makes Wes’ lips curl into a terrible fucking smile and another wave of terrified rage washes over him.

 

“Sit down. You’re making my associates nervous,” Wesley keeps his voice stern, worse than it was when he was just an assistant, “We both know you don’t want that.”

 

So he does, mindlessly, doesn’t matter if he can’t think if he’s being told what to do.

 

Elektra shoots him a look across the table, but he can’t even manage a wordless response. Just buries his head in his hands and tries to breathe, to settle down and let this all  _ pass.  _ He isn’t exactly used to riding it out, instead of doing something about it.

 

“Now, shall we get back to work?”

 

He rests his hands against the table, nice and gentle so no one thinks he’s getting any ideas. Just can’t handle this all, right now, but Wesley wants to torture him, won’t let him leave.

 

"Coulda talked shop anywhere else," he growls out, tilts his head just enough to glare at Wesley.

 

"We aren't talking  _ shop,  _ Benjamin, this is about the  _ politics  _ of the situation. You've put me in a very precarious position and I was just lucky enough that my associates here offered me a position following the very rapid dissolution of everything I’ve staked my career on.”

 

“You want to talk politics, yes?” Elektra lets a smile creep across her face and it’s easy, oh so easy, to let her calm him right down, “Fine. I will indulge you. We can talk  _ politics _ .”

 

“Hm, well, we’ll be here all night if we don’t order first,” Wesley seems to consider for a second before flagging down the waiter.

 

They don’t get much say in the matter and he’s used to it, but he figures it’s driving Red and Handsome up the wall. Wes whispers something to the waiter and sends him off on his way, doesn’t even let them choose what they want to eat. 

 

Soon as he’s gone, Wesley steeples his fingers and stares down the three of them from across the table, “Now, where were we?”

 

He looks at each of them, testing the waters, and Bullseye's half afraid that Elektra doesn't get the game, might just answer when she's supposed to keep her mouth shut. But she holds her tongue, sets his teeth on edge thinking he’s underestimated her again.

 

“Can we have this conversation sometime tonight?” Red asks, teeth gritted.

 

Wes holds up a hand to silence him ‘cos the waiter’s coming back around with a goddamn bottle of champagne, like they’re fucking celebrating something. Pours them each a glass as Wes just grins and grins and grins.

 

He’s the only one who picks up his glass, takes a sip, “Come now, there’s no need to be  _ rude.  _ It’s terrible practice to refuse a drink from your host.”

 

“Might try an’ poison us, though.”

 

Wes’ face turns, twists up into a scowl. Always did hate it when he broke character, which is why he kept on doing it. They’re supposed to go about this like it’s a dance, doubletalk here, layered meaning there, letting Wes lead while the rest of ‘em try and figure it out as they do it backwards.

 

“This is not some elaborate  _ ploy  _ to have,” Wesley gnashes his teeth, damn near close to breaking character himself, drops his voice down low, “To have you  _ killed.  _ You and I both know that there are easier ways than this.”

 

“Then what, exactly, is the point of this evening?” Elektra takes her champagne, knocks it back in one go, “Are you hoping to win our favor? Are you attempting to impress us?”

 

Wes grimaces, yet again, “There is an open space in the market and it’s simply a matter of time before someone  _ claims  _ it. This grace period can’t carry on indefinitely.”

 

“It is our position, rightfully,” Handsome sets her glass down coolly, tracing a gloved finger over its lip.

 

It’s easier when she’s in control, gives him the peace of mind to grin, showing off all his teeth as he crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, “No one else’s managed a hostile takeover. We  _ both  _ know plenty’ve tried.”

 

“Well if you  _ want  _ it, you best start acting like it, otherwise someone will come and take it from you and you’ll be lucky to get out alive.”

 

“If I didn’t know, I’d say you were threatening us,” Red tilts his head just slightly, like he’s scrutinizing Wes, sizing up his damn soul.

 

“ _ I _ don’t want it. That’s nothing to say for my associates, however, but this simply isn’t the best allocation of my skills. But you three  _ have  _ caused quite the  _ controversy  _ while pretending you know how to navigate this line of work. We’re here because you need to make reparations.”

 

He knows Wes is usually good on his word, and again, much as it pains him to admit it, neither of them have ever had all that much desire for upward trajectory. Wesley’s always gonna be someone’s assistant and he’s always gonna be someone’s gun.

 

(It isn’t that bad, really. Keeps him busy.)

 

“And let me guess, you want to talk  _ terms _ ?” Matty laughs, quick and hollow.

 

Wesley purses his lips, like he’s trying to keep composure, “Of course.”

 

“I want you  _ out _ ,” Elektra says, finger pointing right at Wes’ heart, “Out of our city.  _ Convince  _ me to let you stay within our state.”

 

Gets her a nervous laugh that says more than Wesley probably wants it to, “And here I thought we were talking terms. Are you always that  _ demanding?” _

 

“Those are our terms. You leave and I let you live.”

 

Things haven’t spiraled out of control so much that he’s started worrying again, ‘cos he figures Handsome’s pulling on Wes’ string’s something awful. She’s smart, might be cut out for this kind of life after all. And maybe they aren’t winning right now, but it’s the first time he’s felt like they might actually survive this.

 

“And what of the war you’re trying to start with my associates?”

 

“We don’t want another war,” he says and it’s the truth, feels like he might’ve died in the last one anyway, “And odds are your ‘ _ associates’  _ don’t want one either. City’s gettin’ back on its feet and there’s gonna be nothin’ left for any of us if we keep tearin’ it apart.”

 

“Ah,” Wes grins, “So you  _ can  _ think, after all!”

 

He does it on purpose, really. Always wants people to underestimate him in case he’s gotta cut and run or stab ‘em in the back, but it still kind of stings. If anyone ever knew how smart he really is, there’d be all the more reason to want him dead.

 

“We’ll stay off their lawn and they’ll stay offa ours and we’ll all get along  _ just peachy _ ,” he spits.

 

Matty gets all bristly, all up in arms about the idea, drops his voice low, “But--”

 

“Necessary evils an’ all that, Red.”

 

And Matty settles back down in his chair. Won’t be happy about it later, probably, but right now, they just need to keep a handle on things.

 

“I’ll see if that’s…  _ acceptable,”  _ Wesley huffs, leans over and whispers to the guy next to him all quiet-like.

 

That’s annoying, real annoying. And more than annoying, it sets his teeth on edge, turns his stomach, because the only reason Wesley’s whispering is ‘cos he figures someone at the table knows Japanese. 

 

Might be worried about Elektra, but the thing is,  _ he  _ knows it, too. Put shit-ton of effort into making sure nobody found out, ‘cos it lets him eavesdrop and keeps up the lie that he’s nothing more than a hired hand.

 

And Wes stops, listens to the guy in return, before nodding with a smile, “There will be a clear delineation of territory. They will operate with impunity within their own limits. You are not allowed to initiate any communication with them. Are we in agreement?”

 

Elektra hums to herself, picking some nonexistent piece of fuzz off of her glove, “That is all dependent on whether or not  _ you  _ will leave.”

 

“Oh, I fully intend to leave,” Wesley’s smile twists into something genuine, like he’s got a winning hand, “I’ll be in Japan as soon as the funeral is over.”

 

“The funeral?” Bullseye asks, head cocked to the side, feels like the whole damn world’s split in two.

 

“Well, yes, of course, the funeral. The investigation is finally complete, and I’m nice enough that I won’t make you  _ pay  _ me for the strings I pulled to keep you three from being implicated,” Wes says it like it’s some great favor, like he wasn’t just saving his own fucking skin, “The city needs to mourn, after all.”

 

“It’s been too long for a funeral,” Red’s got a hell of a glare, even if you know he can’t see you, “What are you playing at?”

 

“I’m not playing at anything. We have the,” Wes drops his voice down to a whisper, leans in like they’re real good friends, “ _ The body, _ and my associates agreed to make sure it would be…  _ presentable.” _

 

“You’re havin’ a fuckin’ funeral? For  _ him? _ ” His voice cracks more than he wants it to.

 

“Half of New York saw his body,  _ Ben _ , what with how carelessly you left it on  _ display.  _ If you wanted quiet, you should’ve thought about that before causing all this mayhem.”

 

Handsome makes a low noise, almost a growl, at the back of her throat, “Fine. Enjoy your funeral. I will not be as kind to you as I was to your employer should you remain in New York.”

 

“Well,” Wesley has that shiteating grin yet again, “I have one more stipulation. You want to be in charge? You have to make appearances. If I don’t see you in attendance at this weekend’s funeral, I will consider it a breach of contract.”

 

“What the fuck?” He laughs, sharp and quick and frantic, “What’s fuckin’ wrong with you, Wes? Jesus Christ, a goddamn funeral?”

 

“Of course,  _ all  _ of you will have to be there. Even  _ you, _ ” Wesley looks him dead in the eye, “ _ Obviously _ , you’re more than just an  _ employee _ . If you want a seat at the table, you best be ready for this kind of thing. I doubt you'll be able to handle being more than a hired gun, but you must at least make an  _ attempt. _ ”

 

“Okay,” Elektra growls, “We will be at your  _ funeral _ . We are finished here.”

 

She stands up, straightens out her dress as Matty follows in suit. Red all but has to drag him out of his own seat, still lost in his own damn head. He’s still staring at Wes all the while, clutching onto Matty’s hand all the while.

 

“Good luck,” Wes gives a little salute, “You’re bound to need it.”

 

Once he’s vertical, Matty lets go of his hand and he hates,  _ fucking despises _ , how lost it makes him feel to be standing all on his lonesome. But Handsome’s already pulling on her jacket and it’s always easy to copy, so he puts his on too. Red’s hanging off of her arm as she marches towards the exit, heels clicking against the floor. Just ends up trailing after them.

 

* * *

After they’re outside, it’s easier to breathe, easier to think. And he’s pissed off and all fucked up, and his head hurts something awful just thinking about how the night went.

 

He pulls at his hair, as much of it as he’s got to pull, and makes this drawn out growl, “Jeezus Red, we’re all gonna end up dead at this rate.”

 

“You’re still the one that got us in this mess,” Matty keeps on walking, doesn’t even give pause before spitting out accusations.

 

“And I’m the one that told you we oughta cut and fuckin’ run before we end up getting invited to the Kingpin’s goddamn  _ funeral!”  _

 

Elektra jabs her fingers into his side, “Be quiet. We will talk about this later.”

 

So he shuts his mouth and keeps on moving, counting out how many sidewalk spaces it takes to get home. It’s a good couple hundred at least, but he can’t quite keep the numbers straight in his head, still feels like the universe is waterboarding him.

 

And he’s not sure why he does it, maybe out of spite, maybe out of some fucked up way to prove Wes wrong, but as soon as they’re in the elevator, he backs Matty into the wall, pulls him in by the collar. Doesn’t seem to mind when Bullseye kisses him, either, nipping at his lips until he opens his mouth a mite. 

 

And then he pulls back, still clutching onto Red’s collar for dear life.

 

“I’ll kill him for that,” he growls, ignoring how Matty’s working on loosening his tie, “I will. Actin’ like all you gotta do is  _ fuck  _ me and I’ll be your loyal little dog. Gonna do whatever you say so long as you--”

 

“Shut up,” Red pants, breathless, “Just stop.”

 

“Jesus Christ, I’m not that desperate, not that pathetic. Not that easy, don’t just give out freebies to people who pay attention to me. Got fuckin’ standards, won’t just bend over backwards and let you use me so long as you call me pretty and kiss me goodnight.”

 

Matty cups Bullseye’s cheeks in his hands, thumbing over the soft skin under his eyes and it’s enough to make him shut up. Just goes stock still with his jaw hanging open because Wesley’s fucking right, he’d do anything Red asks when he’s in this position.

 

“Behave yourself, boys,” Elektra clucks her tongue, “This is our floor.”

 

He pulls away from Matty, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Doesn’t much care about keeping up appearances, but he’s still disgusted with himself about the whole fucking situation. 

 

The elevator door opens and Elektra heads out first; he darts out after her, doesn’t want to deal with Red right now. Sure, it’ll be impossible to avoid him once they’re back at their apartment, but for now he can be a couple steps ahead.

 

* * *

As soon as they're inside, he gets backed into a corner. Not  _ literally _ , even if he plays the part well enough, but it still sets his teeth on edge just the same. Stripped out of his jacket and hung it up and turned around to find Red and Handsome looking for answers.

 

"What was  _ that?"  _ Red asks, brows furrowed, "Because I'm pretty sure there's some gap in your logic if you think trying to jump my bones in an elevator proves you're not here just because you're good in bed."

 

He makes a low, growling noise, digs his nails into the meat of his palms. It's a surrender if he admits he's ashamed, admits he doesn't know what got into him, and he's glad Matty can't see how flushed his face is.

 

"More importantly, were you  _ truly _ going to break your own nose in the middle of a restaurant?" Elektra almost sounds like she's worried.

 

But the fact that he's being  _ interrogated _ makes his fucking blood boil, "Nothin' I haven't done before."

 

"Such a childish outburst," her voice strains, "No better than throwing a tantrum."

 

"That's not it, Handsome. Sometimes I just can't think straight and it helps."

 

It's bad, really. Goes too long without someone smacking some sense into him and he's just gotta take matters into his own hands. And it always gets worse at the dinners, used to sneak off to the bathroom and punch a mirror until it broke and head back out like nothing happened. No one ever brought up the blood on his hand, his shirt, the tablecloth.

 

And sometimes Fisk would take care of it for him, grab him across the table and put the fear of god into him while he couldn't hardly move unless he was keen on dislocating his arm. Then he'd just settle down and they'd finish up dinner and it'd all be fine.

 

He doesn't exactly miss it but god does he want to clear his head.

 

Seen her scars, too. He figures if anyone might, she'd get it. Knows damn well why she was in the hospital back when she was 14 and now that he's living with her, likes her, even, he'll take that to his grave.

 

"We cannot afford to let you injure yourself," she says, lips pulled back into a grimace, "We need you now, preferably while you are still functional."

 

He ends up shrinking under her glare, eyes cast down at his feet, "I won't. Don't worry too much."

 

"There's got to be something wrong with you," Red mutters, real small.

 

And he wants to get angry, wants to scream and yell and start a goddamn fight. Wants to grab Red by the shoulders and shake him until he understands,  _ really _ understands for once in his fucking life. 

 

But at the heart of it all, he's scared, doesn't want to give Red a reason to make him leave.

 

Which just makes it worse, really. He's so fucking clingy and needy and broken and all it took to get him to throw his whole damn life away was the possibility of being in the same circle as Red. The rest is just a bonus, wasn't even expecting all that much.

 

"Yeah," he spits, "Yeah, there really fucking is."

 

Elektra smacks the back of Red’s head, not too hard, just a love tap, " _ Matthew." _

 

"Nah, it's fine, Handsome. He's right. Just like Wes said, only thing I'm good for is being someone's gun."

 

He figured they all knew that by now, wasn’t playing at anything to suggest the opposite. He’s a mess when he’s aimless, as good as dead with how fucked up he gets. And Red won’t let him do what he’s good at, wants him to behave and try and do things as gentle as possible, but that just isn’t what he is.

 

“You’re not our gun, Bullseye,” Matty tries to rest a hand on his shoulder but he jerks away, won’t let it go that far otherwise he’ll be lost forever.

 

“I hate you all,” he says, but there’s no bite in it, just keeps wringing his hands over and over, “You broke me, you really did.”

 

And then he bolts, storms right back out of the apartment and into the stairwell. Figures someone’s gonna follow him and make sure he doesn’t do anything, which makes his blood boil and his stomach turn even if they’ve got good reason not to trust him alone.

 

He ends up down on the sidewalk, just another face in the crowd, and he’s all but given up smoking so he’s just marching around in the cold trying to wake up for good, finally. Didn’t bother with a jacket or anything, like he can freeze his way to clarity and that way no one will see a mark on him and it’ll be  _ fine. _

 

But he can’t breathe too good with all the people around him and his rage is starting to choke him, wrapped around his throat like the hands of someone too uncertain to just go ahead and snap his fucking neck.

 

He’s got his wits about him enough to know that he’s liable to hurt someone if they ask if he’s alright, so he ducks off down an alleyway. 

 

Shirt’s thin enough that he can feel the brick of the building wall digging into his back and he’s shaking like a man possessed, been awful cold lately, the kind you can feel in your bones even when you’re cooped up indoors. Too damn stubborn for his own good, can’t bring himself to admit he regrets this, even if he can barely feel his fingers anymore.

 

_ “Well, I guess we know  _ that’s  _ a sore spot.” _

 

Before it was Wesley, it was Elektra, and before Elektra, it was FIsk, and before Fisk, it was dad, and he’s always been fucking hearing voices. Probably always will be.

 

“Go away,” he growls, arms wrapped tight around himself, trying to hold onto whatever warmth he’s got left.

 

“ _ If he doesn’t let you kill, there’s something  _ else  _ he wants.” _

 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, what makes you think you know _anything?”_ He ends up bent over in the snow, hands pressed to the sides of his head, knees digging into his chest, “You’re _me,_ you know what I know and we don’t know jack shit about anything.”

 

And he’s hoping no one’s keeping an eye on him, ‘cos no one comes up and begs him to come home, no one finds him and makes sure he’s awake, unharmed, any of that shit. Doesn’t think he could bear it if they just let him sit there in the cold this long.

 

He gets up real stiff-like after he realizes no one’s coming for him. Makes his way back to the apartment still hugging himself tight.

 

Doesn’t even have a key with him but it’s doubtful if his fingers would work well enough to let him unlock the door, so he’s gotta knock and wait for someone to let him in.

 

Tells himself it’s just the pins and needles burning across his face, there’s no reason he should be ashamed, he let them all know what they were getting into with him. He’s not sure why he even went back, could spend the night anywhere else and he’s only in this situation ‘cos he got too wrapped up in the two of them.

 

But Red opens the door, voice all soft as he says, “Hey. We were getting worried.”

 

“Shouldn’t have bothered,” he hisses, steps into the warmth of the apartment.

 

Matty shuts the door behind him, almost, almost touches his cheek, but he ducks out from under his hand. Tries not to let it get to him when Red’s face falls.

 

“Where were you?”

 

He grimaces, still doesn’t want to be doing this, “Does it matter?”

 

But the jig is up as soon as Elektra looks at him; she just sighs, lips pursed and hands folded close to her chest. He’s still shaking, dead giveaway, and there’s probably snow in his hair and his goddamn face is probably flushed and he should’ve warmed up a bit in the lobby so no one would know.

 

“It’s not our fault he got in your head,” Matty whispers, “You know that, right?”

 

“Fuck, Matty, you don’t get it. He didn’t get in my  _ head,”  _ he drags his hands down his face, still cold as ice, “He’s right, always has been. I can’t do this. I can’t go to some funeral, can’t even handle a dinner, can’t be the goddamn Kingpin, can’t be the same as you two. I’m damaged goods, everyone knows it.”

 

The warmth of the apartment isn’t even doing much, just makes his fingers hurt and his stomach turn because nothing’s changed. And he’s wringing his hands over and over, trying to get enough friction to warm them up, trying to chase away the ache that’s right down in his bones.

 

“Bullseye, we are functioning as a group now, yes?” Elektra continues to watch him, like she’s looking for something specific.

 

“Shit, yeah, I guess we are.”

 

They’re all tied together, they’re meant to be like this, linked forever and never apart. He thought he’d stop feeling so empty, so fucking incomplete and half formed and alone, once he realized how they were linked. But they aren’t the same even if they’ve all been shoved together by some cosmic hand of fate and he’s still broken, even when he’s pressed in between the two of them.

 

“Then we will help you. We are not your enemy.”

 

He really, really, wishes that was true.

 

Wants it so bad that he doesn’t even push Red away when he comes up behind him. Just lets Matty hold him oh so tightly and hopes he’ll ignore the way he tenses up. It’s nice, though, feeling the heat radiating off of Red soaking into his skin.

 

“You were just out in the cold, weren’t you?” Matty sighs, breath warm against the back of his neck, “I thought you’d gone to a bar, or a diner, maybe a hotel. Why would you do that to yourself?”

 

"Can we stop fuckin' talking about me?" He doesn't mean for his voice to crack, but it does.

 

They broke him, really did. Now he's some docile, toothless little thing, letting Red hold him when he really wants to smack him, wants to snap and try and drill it into their fucking heads that he's  _ fine. _ They're ruining him, taking out all his bite, and worst of all, they've made him love it.

 

Red kisses his neck, hands wrapped around his own. At this rate he's gonna break down, gonna give in and fold because he can't maintain anything when Matty's doing this to him.

 

Handsome decides she oughta get in on this, too, heads over to where they're standing and keeps on giving that same small sad look she had when she realized he'd done. She rests her palms against his cheeks, skin so hot it burns.

 

"Look at me."

 

He doesn't much want to, but she's got an authority to her, always feels like he doesn't have a choice. So he meets her eyes, hates how it makes him feel like shrinking in on himself, but Matty makes it easier to bear.

 

"From here on, you will be more careful. You will not make yourself weak or vulnerable or otherwise an easy option to tear our operation apart."

 

It's easy when it's about the “ _ operation,”  _ when it's an order instead of two people begging him to stop. He can do that for an employer, maybe, or at least get crafty. He’s awful good at keeping up appearances, always manages to blend in.

 

But he'll try, really. Not just because he’s scared of what they’ll do if he doesn’t.

 

He nods, nice and slow and neither of them let go of him. It’s what he wanted, maybe. Sympathy, center of attention, all eyes on him. That’s always what he wants, isn’t it? Just needs everyone to look at him, to make sure he’s real.

 

Still, it’s hard to believe it’s just about their “ _ operation”  _ when Elektra’s smoothing over his cheeks and Red’s trying to work the feeling back into his hands and he’s caught between the two of them.

 

Matty lifts his head from where it’s buried in the crook of Bullseye’s neck and they’re so, so close when Red rests his cheek against Elektra’s hand. It’s the three of them, all so painfully near to each other.

 

“So we’re really gonna do this, huh?” He whispers, “Just wanna soften the blow when you tell me, right?”

 

Elektra runs her free hand through his hair, “We have to, Bullseye. This funeral may be the only thing standing between ourselves and death.”

 

“You’re gonna dress me up and show me off and make sure everyone knows I’m workin’ for you two so they know not to fuck with you. That’s what this always is.”

 

“It’ll be fine,” Red whispers, squeezes him even tighter for a second, “It’s one day and then it’ll be behind us.”

 

“Nah, nah, this isn’t what I  _ do,  _ I kill people, I don’t go to funerals,” he’s getting all worked up again, can’t even do anything with his hands because Matty’s still holding them tight.

 

And Matty just laughs, kind of soft, private, “But you don’t even kill people these days. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

 

“Wes only wants me there because he knows I hate it. Fucker even made me go to Fisk’s wedding, as if anyone tryin’ to hurt him would make it that far,” his voice hitches, “Everyone knows who I am, s’all just a power play. And I gotta pretend I can be someone, fuckin’ hate doing that.”

 

Elektra keeps on stroking his hair, gonna have to shave it short again so maybe they’ll stop doing that, stop making him come undone and spill his guts out as soon as they look at him just right and touch him all soft and gentle.

 

“This is not our present concern,” Elektra steals her hand away from where it’s trapped between him and Red, gives an open space for him to mouth at Bullseye’s jaw.

 

It’s aimless, doesn’t seem like Matty needs, or even wants, it to go anywhere. And Elektra starts undoing the buttons on his shirt, one at a time. Kinda makes his stomach turn, stoking at the anger raging on inside him, like he’s a child, can’t take care of himself.

 

Maybe if it was Red, this’d get him all riled up, might leave him with something else burning a hole in the pit of his stomach, but it’s Handsome. And he knows that this was all a lie dressed up in the pretense of work, which makes it all the worse. Fucking hates that she’s  _ worried  _ about him.

 

Matty gets the picture, though. Lets go of his hands for a few seconds to pop the button on his trousers. That gives him a few ideas, gets him to make a drawn out almost-moan under his breath. But the bedroom’s unusable and there’s nowhere in the apartment that’s got anything resembling privacy and he’s all screwy in the head right now and he’s still goddamn cold.

 

He twists around to face Red, “Mmm, one day, one day, I promise. When we get some time alone and everything’s settled.”

 

Elektra peels his shirt off, just lets her maneuver him as she needs to ‘cos he’s all caught up in watching Matty’s eyes. Red’s got his glasses off for once and they’re real pretty, like glass, even if he can’t quite name the color. Something light and unreal.

 

Once the shirt’s off, Bullseye steps out of his trousers, breaking away from the two of them. Doesn’t go far, especially since once he’s away from their warmth, the ache seeps right back into his bones. Sets him to rubbing his hands together again, trying to force it away. Might not even be the cold, actually, but he’s not gonna fuck around with that line of thought.

 

“I’m still fuckin’ freezing.”

 

“Hopefully you have not made yourself sick,” Elektra gives him a dark look.

 

“Aw, fuck off. Done worse than that and came out just  _ fine _ . Used to be homeless, you know.”

 

Red doesn’t come back to him, starts on unzipping Elektra’s dress instead, “Well, I’m guessing it’s been a while since you pulled a stunt like this.”

 

He scowls because Matty’s right. Ends up settling down on their makeshift bed without a word, wrapping himself up in the blankets. Elektra shrugs out of her dress, lets Red pull off her gloves before starting to unbutton  _ his  _ shirt, this time around. Makes him feel damned lonely.

 

Red leans in and catches her for a kiss, arms looping around her, unhooking her bra as she undoes the last button. Pushes the shirt off his shoulders, leaves it pooling around his elbows. He breaks away and they both laugh, like it’s a secret shared between them, and she slips off her bra. 

 

Makes Bullseye flush something awful even though it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. No, it’s only getting to him now because he’s watching the two of them, thinking about how they were in college when he was out getting treated like shit and killing and killing and killing and going home every night to an empty bed, being fucking grateful he at least had that. 

 

So he buries his face in the blankets, doesn’t want to look at them, doesn’t want to think about everything he’s missed out on by never being much of a person at all. He’s been good at hiding it, buried under layer upon layer, but now they’ve all been peeled back.

 

But even when he can’t see them, they’re still fucking haunting him, hearing how comfortably they move around each other, how Elektra whispers something and how Red whispers another thing right back. The sounds of Red’s shirt, Elektra’s stockings, Red’s trousers, hitting the carpet.

 

He pictures them like this, kissing and laughing and stripping down to nothing at all in some dorm room. Pictures himself wild-eyed and bloody for one reason or another. Pictures them in bed together, a real bed, not some couch cushions on the floor, some lazy day where they don’t have class and aren’t trying to save the world yet. Pictures himself staring in the mirror until the endless  black eyes and busted noses and broken teeth blur out and the two of them are staring back.

 

And then Red settles down on the bed, lays right next to him, on top of the covers, tracing a hand over his side. 

 

“Are you planning on keeping all the blankets for yourself tonight?” Matty laughs.

 

“You can get under whenever you damn well please.”

 

“Hey,” Red stops rubbing his side, “I get it. You’re pissed off, but you’ve got no right to be like this.”

 

He’s not gonna argue, but he’s real damn sure Red’s gotten worse than this since they all started living together. Matty’s settled down in some ways, doesn’t get so worked up he just lashes out as much. Which was strange in the first place, never figured he’d be one to get  _ mean. _

 

“Fine,” Bullseye mutters, wasn’t quite stubborn enough to say nothing ‘cos he might end up sleeping by himself.

 

So Red slips under the blankets and wraps his arms around him, just as nice and warm as he was when they were all standing. Maybe even more so now because he’s stripped down to his underwear, skin pressed against skin.

 

Elektra’s on the other side of Matty, got her arms wrapped around both of them. From what he can tell, she runs hot, he runs cold, Matty’s as close to normal as they can get. But it fits so well, they all fit so well together.

 

* * *

Elektra wakes him up the next morning, Red stirs just a bit but she tells him not to worry, they’re going out for a while, he oughta sleep in. All that shit, not quite a lie but enough of the truth omitted to keep him from worrying. 

 

Figures she’s gonna read him the riot act about wising up and straightening out his act. Gonna teach him how to behave at the fucking farce of a funeral. But she wakes him up so gently, he can’t stay all that mad at her.

 

So he gets dressed and plays along with her game ‘cos she still won’t tell him what her angle is. Doesn’t say anything at all about what they’re doing until she drags him into some little cafe, nice, upscale, not too busy. They’re in the perfect window of time between breakfast and lunch.

 

“Find a seat for us,” she says, probably knows he does best when he’s got something to do, so he just nods and hops to it.

 

He picks a table towards the back, clear view out the front window, emergency exit nearby if the whole world goes to shit. He’s good to have in a fight, if something goes wrong. Means he’s got at least one thing going for him.

 

She sits down at the other side of their spot without a word, crosses her legs and straightens out the scarf tying back her hair.

 

Once she’s done, she rests her hands on the table, rapping her nails against the wood, "I took the liberty of ordering for you."

 

At this point, he's used to it. Needs one damn thing in his life he isn't worried about spiralling out of control.

 

"Guess this isn't a social outing, huh?" He mutters, always seems to be about work.

 

She's smart, figured out what Fisk did in barely a month. If you trap him somewhere he can't just up and bolt from, you can get through a full conversation with him. Not that he hasn't stormed out before, but at least he won't take anyone with him.

 

"We need to talk."

 

He scowls. Doesn't want her to know how much it's bothering him, though, so he kicks back in the chair, arms crossed.

 

"I don't need another fuckin' lecture. I read you loud and clear."

 

"This is not a lecture," her voice is steady, sharp, "You need a suit."

 

He scoffs, shoots her this wild  _ can-you-believe-this-shit _ grin, "I need a  _ suit _ ? For this stupid fucking sham of a funeral?"

 

She motions for him to keep his voice down, just makes him roll his eyes because the truth of the matter is that no one in the city thinks too much about anything. Even if they overhear, odds are they'll think the pair of them is crazy, or they'll keep their damn mouths shut because everyone knows what happens to people who ask too many questions.

 

Still, the barista comes over with two cups of coffee, sets one in front of each of them.

 

"I'll be right back with your pastries," she beams, must think they're an odd pair since Handsome's so put together and he's barely even awake.

 

Elektra picks up her spoon, resting casually between her first two fingers, "Thank you."

 

He takes some sugar packets, couple little containers of cream, from the centerpiece of the table, and sets to work. The barista slides off in the meantime and he can all but feel Elektra start glaring at him again.

 

"You need a suit that fits because we have an image to maintain. There is no point in the anonymity of childish  _ costumes." _

 

He grinds his teeth, stirring his coffee round and round, "Sure as shit don't wear that costume for  _ anonymity,  _ 'Lektra. It's always been different for you and Red."

 

"Oh yes," she pauses to take a sip, watches him carefully over the rim of her cup, "I forgot that you prefer to wear your heart on your sleeve."

 

"Aw, fuck off. Like you'd understand,  _ Missus Elektra Natchios _ ," he over-enunciates her name, really wants to drive the point home, "All you gotta do is tell 'em who you are and everyone loves you."

 

" _ Miss, _ " she snaps, "Matthew and I are not married."

 

"Pretty little rich girl whose name gets her anything and everything in the goddamn world, so of course you gotta keep it spotless 'cos then life wouldn't be so fucking easy."

 

She laughs, hand covering her mouth, "And you believe that insisting on being addressed by a  _ moniker _ is any different? You are also relying on your reputation."

 

"I don't  _ have  _ a reputation," his voice strains, almost cracking under the stress, "Anyone who knows I'm  _ good _ , maybe even the  _ best _ , knows I'm crazy as hell and broken beyond repair. Doesn't get me jack shit other than a steady stream of one and done jobs, and half the time people won't even call me my own fucking name."

 

He figures she's already won by making him admit that he's more infamous than an asset, but she opens her damn mouth like she's about to go in for the kill. Just leaves it hanging, though, when the barista comes back and sets a plate of quiche in front of her and some kind of turnover in front of him.

 

She chokes back whatever she was planning on saying, giving a stiff smile, voice cold, "Thank you. I do not believe we require any other help."

 

"Oh, uh," the girl falters, sounds real uncertain, "Enjoy the food…"

 

He keeps his eyes trained down on his plate, waiting for the two of them to be alone again, "It's one of very very few things I ever got much of a say in."

 

It's a quiet admission, one he hopes she won't just turn around and use to gut him. Didn't have much say in being a thief and then it was only a matter of time before he started killing, logical escalation, already did it once. Couldn't ever go to college, never even made it to fucking high school, never learned how to do anything other than hurt and be hurt.

 

But if he ever up and admitted  _ that,  _ it’d make it real. Might end up tearing him apart. Already hurts to think about it too much.

 

Elektra reaches across the table, like she’s about to try and comfort him, gonna run her fingers over the back of his hand. Pulls away before she gets the chance, leaving her hand just hanging there in the open air.

 

“We will have to make appearances. We will have to attend social functions. This is the reality of our lives now. You need to look presentable,” she gives him this dead serious look, sends a shiver down his fucking spine, “Now, this argument is over. Eat your breakfast.”

 

She works at her food with a fork and knife; he’s got no such compunctions, just picks up the pastry with his bare hands and takes a bite out of it. It’s good, real good, sweet and perfect and he fucking hates that she seems to always know exactly what he likes. Seems like he doesn’t even know that much himself, sometimes.

 

“How’re we even gonna afford this shit?” He asks, likes how she wrinkles her nose at the fact that he’s eating  _ and  _ talking, “Gonna live like the Kingpin when we’re stuck in some rathole one-bedroom apartment, not sure we’ll even make rent next month?”

 

She sighs, real resigned, looks tired, “I will use some of my inheritance.”

 

They made it by the skin of their teeth, scraped together just enough from looting Fisk’s apartment to rent out their current place. She’s offered before, but he’s always kind of got the idea that she didn’t seem too keen on dipping into dear old dad’s money.

 

“Why the sudden change of heart?” He looks her over, half-smile playing on his lips.

 

She settles her utensils down, taking another drink from her coffee, doesn’t grace him with a reaction, “We will need money and status if we wish to take control of the city. I have money. I can achieve status using said money, but we will have to generate more to perpetuate our position. Matthew is taken care of, seeing as how he is my  _ partner.  _ You, however, present a challenge.”

 

“A challenge, huh? That’s what I am?”

 

“We need an explanation for you. You are not family and we simply cannot allow your true purpose to become known.”

 

He smirks, figures he can make her squirm, “And what  _ purpose  _ might that be? Letting your boyfriend work out his latent  _ urges  _ or making sure he doesn’t get his hands dirty?”

 

“If you are trying to make us force you away from us, it will not work.”

 

That gets him to shut up, leaves him scowling down at his food. Hates feeling like he’s been caught red-handed.

 

“On paper, you will be our body-guard. I doubt Matthew will want you to resume working, nor will you have a great deal of time for work, but we can acquire the kind of money we need through our work as the Kingpin.”

 

He nods, doesn’t put too much heart into it.

 

* * *

She takes him to a tailor once they’re done eating. Reminds him a little too much of days spent out with Wesley, trying to get him “presentable” for Fisk, but he’d take Handsome over the little weasel any day.

 

She gets them in on the spot, even without an appointment. Just tells them who she is, how they did work for her  _ father  _ and it stings that she's proving his damn point but he can't call her on it.

 

So that’s how he just ends up sitting in some little fitting room, waiting all on his lonesome since he's too fucking chickenshit to ask her to come in with him. As pathetic as it is, he’s half certain it’d help to have her with him. Might keep him civilized.

 

He’s pretty sure they’re trying to sweat him out, want to see if he’ll bolt. Or she’s ditched him, wants him to handle the whole damn ordeal by himself. It’s such a small space, but he paces as much as he can, trying to avoid going out of his head.

 

But then someone finally comes in, stops him dead in his tracks.

 

“You’re here for a suit fitting?” The woman smiles in that kind of artificial way. 

 

He wrinkles his nose, kind of snarls, “Yeah.”

 

Already peeled off his shirt back at the start, leaving him just in his undershirt, pants hanging low on his hips.

 

“Miss Natchios told me to expect you,” she continues, setting down a little notepad on one of the small tables in the room, pulling out a tape-measure, “Now, we’re fitting you in as a favor, so we’ll have to work fast.”

 

He nods mindlessly, isn’t quite sure what he oughta be doing. She walks right over, gets close to him. Real close, so close it makes his skin crawl. It’s a miracle he’s gotten so used to it with Red and Handsome, they’re both so fucking handsy.

 

“Stand up straight for me, alright? If you cooperate, this’ll be over soon for both of us.”

 

He nods again, straightens up for her. And it’s all just fine as she measures the lengths of his arms, the lengths of his legs, the circumference of his waist. Pushes and pulls him as much as she needs to, jotting down measurements before stretching the tape-measure across his skin again. 

 

Only gets to be a problem when she turns him around, leaves him facing the wall and her hand just barely brushes against his back, it’s nothing he shouldn’t already expect considering how this has been going. But he pulls away like he’s been burnt, hunched over himself like an animal.

 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he chokes out, all but doubles over, “Don’t you dare.”

 

“There’s only a few measurements left,” she says, kind of soft, kind of scared, “I need the distance between your shoulders and the circumference of your chest and thigh.”

 

“No, nah, I’m done. Where’s Elektra? Tell her I’m done, I’m through, I’m not doin’ this.”


	8. part viii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol i took a week off because life was kicking my ASS (ugh, inventory prep and then inventory week. ugh working til 1am and then driving home while zonked the fuck out.)

Elektra won't let him off the hook that easy, comes in and watches him to make sure he goes through with it, makes sure she gets all the measurements.

 

She really oughta be glad he didn't just haul off and deck the poor woman, done worse than that for less. By all rights, he's really behaving himself. Doesn't complain, doesn't flinch away, doesn't snap and throttle the seamstress with her own tape measure.

 

And then they're back on the street, and he's mostly pissed off about the gap in his memory, faded out around when the woman wrapped the measuring tape around his waist. It's strange how it happens sometimes, how there's nothing there at all.

 

He'd ask Elektra to fill in the gaps, but he's just fucking angry, "Goddamn creep thinks she's just got the right to grab me? Touch me and move me around however she wants?"

 

"That  _ is  _ generally how suit fittings work."

 

"Oh, so you're taking her side, huh?" He growls, all listless and miserable and coiled up so tight it hurts.

 

She sighs, exasperated, "There are not any sides to take, Bullseye."

 

"Course there are," he mutters, teeth bared, "There's always fucking sides to take."

 

"She was not doing  _ anything  _ to you. You are coming up with  _ excuses  _ that sound more appealing than the truth of the matter: you are such a broken little thing that you cannot make it through something as simple as a suit fitting."

 

His face burns, flushed like hell, and he folds in on himself, shoulders rolled forward, shrinking down into his jacket. It'd be easier to accept the state he's in if she was yelling, but she's not. Just stating facts, plain and simple.

 

At least she doesn't make him look at her when she starts talking again, "What you can and cannot do is not important to me. You must at least accept it, rather than try to shunt responsibility onto someone else."

 

He scowls, grinds his damn teeth. Just when he was finally getting used to the idea of her being  _ nice.  _ Not kind, but she's at least  _ nice. _ Takes better care of him than Red, when it really comes down to it.

 

“Jeezus, were you really expecting that to go well? You  _ know  _ me, seem to know every damn thing about me, you shoulda realized it would turn out like this.”

 

She’s clever, she’s at least realized how he gets when people touch him. How he’s only ever okay with it if they’re tearing him apart, really. That’s still the case even with her and Red, still breaking him down, leaving him a shattered mess.

 

“So this is  _ my  _ fault?” She cocks her head to the side, examining him, “It is my fault that you could not cope with a completely harmless stranger attempting to ascertain your measurements? It is my fault that you had to call on me to join you in the room as though you were a child?”

 

“Yeah. It is,” he spits, really isn’t her fault but he’s in a bad way, on the edge, “Shoulda listened to me when I told you that I’m not  _ like  _ you and Red.”

 

She reaches out and grabs him, right in the middle of the street. Holds him in place with her hand wrapped ‘round his forearm, nails damn near digging into the soft skin even through the jacket. He’d like to say he tried to pull away, tried to shake her off, but he doesn’t make it that far. Just ends up standing stock still and staring right at her, like a deer in headlights.

 

Elektra gets in right up close to his face, enough to feel her breath on his skin, “You are being purposefully antagonistic for some ungodly reason. I will not stand for it. You can have sympathy and understanding when you decide to be civil about it.”

 

So he just stands there, mouth hanging open like a fucking idiot, gnashing his teeth trying to figure out if he wants to say anything. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. But that doesn’t matter much ‘cos it’s debatable if he could choke out any words at all.

 

“Do you understand me?” She squeezes his arm even tighter, looking him right in the eye.

 

“I blacked out,” he says, still feeling out how speech sounds in his mouth, “Blacked out back there ‘cos someone fucking touched me, didn’t even  _ hurt  _ me, just touched me all gentle-like and I lost it. Tried to get outta it before it got that bad but  _ you  _ made me finish up and now I’m missing an hour, maybe more.”

 

She frowns, lips pulled to a deathly thin line, shadows hanging heavy under her eyes. And then she lets go of his arm. Nice and easy and slow. They both just stand there a mite, letting all the people on the sidewalk weaves around them. Then, she runs her hand over his shoulder, real soft.

 

“We should make our way back home.”

 

* * *

Red's up and at 'em by the time they get back. Got both his billy clubs in hand, practicing blocking and different attacks. He's still got the stitches in, night nurse hasn't been back yet. Bullseye’d chide him, tell him he oughta be careful or they'll rip, but he doubts Matty'd be keen on that. And Red barely even acknowledges them when they slip in.

 

Already wasted half the damn day at the tailor's and he doesn't even have a suit to show for his troubles. Might not even have it in time for the funeral, 'cos they've gotta alter it for it to fit him.

 

It's not his fault nothing fits him. Stopped growing early on and he's always been just a bit too bony, eats less than he ought to what with how often he's running around. Used to be a fucking athlete, but since then, he's taken a downward spiral. Nothing really means much if he doesn't have a purpose.

 

"Where have you two been?" Red asks between moves, doesn't stop what he's doing.

 

"'Lektra took me to get fitted for a suit."

 

Matty's got this kind of incredulous look on his face, one eyebrow quirked up, like he figures that's something that would be  _ easy.  _ Makes Bullseye’s face burn again, flushed right up to the tips of his ears. 

 

Elektra purses her lips, "The fitting took longer than expected."

 

He's quietly thankful that she doesn't say anything about how he can't remember half of it. One day, he's gonna have to tell Red, though, and he's fucking dreading it already.

 

"Seems like Handsome's the only one that takes me out, Matty," he laughs, kind of hollow, "One of these days, you gotta take me on a date, yeah?"

 

And Lord knows he's still a masochist because he lets himself imagine it. Doing anything Matty wants to, pretending for an hour or two that they're real people; doing something civilized, like dinner and a concert; slipping off somewhere quiet and lonely and kissing him senseless where no one can see them. It's nice, but he'd just as soon settle for being alone together.

 

"You're thinking about dates at a time like  _ this?" _

 

He shrinks down in on himself even more, rubbing at the back of his neck, "I'm just tryin' to keep calm, all things considered."

 

Red sighs, letting himself relax with his billy clubs resting at his side. His pajama pants hang low on his hips and if it weren't for the stitches against his naked skin and the fucking billy clubs, this would feel so painfully normal.

 

"This will all be over in very little time," Elektra runs a hand over his shoulders, as if she’s trying to calm him down, makes his guts get all twisted up, "Matthew, dear, I will purchase a new suit for you as well. We need to be presentable."

 

Red frowns at that, "And how are you planning on managing that?"

 

"Handsome's using her inheritance."

 

She grabs the scruff of his neck in an instant, nails digging into his skin without outright choking him. Figures it was supposed to be a secret but it's gonna end bad if they keep on keeping secrets.

 

“Oh,  _ come on _ ,” he scoffs, “You knew he was gonna find out. He knows when you’re  _ lying. _ ”

 

Keeps his mouth shut tight after that, ‘cos she might just snap his neck if he goes all out. No one says much of anything, though; just lets the situation hang in the air, weighing down on their shoulders. He doesn’t move a muscle, trying to will himself into being unnoticeable.

 

“Why?” Red asks, finally, “Why would you do that?”

 

“We need  _ money,  _ Matthew, _ ”  _ her voice catches.

 

The look on Matty’s face says she probably didn’t tell him jack shit about her grand plan. He’s caught in the crossfire, might end up having to mediate since he sure as hell doesn’t want everything to  fall apart  _ now _ . Not when everything’s so precarious and who knows what could happen to him if he was out all on his lonesome.

 

So he doesn’t mention the plan. Can’t do it now, at least.

 

“That was--That was for when,” Red sounds like the whole damn world’s come crashing down, “When things were good and we… We could, uh, could--God, Elektra, we talked about this for _years,_ before you even had the money. The house in Greece, and, and how we’d--”

 

“We talked about it for _two years._ When we were in _college._ And then my _father_ was shot _in front of me_ , Matthew. I was not saving it for _you_ , for some childish _fairytale_ daydream. I spent _three years_ with my head under _water_ and two years _killing_ so I could look at another person’s dead eyes and prove that I was not the same as _them_ , that I was not _empty_ , _soulless_ , _flesh_. And-and you were thinking about _the house in Greece?”_

 

She’s laughing, violent and desperate, fingers playing across the back of Bullseye’s neck. Crying, too. He could hear it in her voice, can’t hide it worth shit. It’s strange, knowing she’s just as human as the rest of them. Red’s just standing there, slack-jawed, and everything feels so damn broken, so out of place.

 

“ _ Jeezus _ ,” he scowls, “I think we’re fuckin’ cursed. Like, shit, I think we’re ‘sposed to be  _ dead _ .”

 

They’re all linked for a reason. Something went wrong; earth-shattering, cosmically fucking wrong; and now they’re all stuck in this endless fucked up loop. It's the same damn thing over and over again, just a slightly different spin to it. Near misses and impossible odds.

 

He ends up pulling at his hair--really,  _ really _ , needs to shave it short again--palms pressed flush to his temples, “God,  _ god _ , we’re supposed to be dead, aren’t we?”

 

“ _ Bullseye _ ,” Red says, nice and even, “No, we’re not.”

 

“How do you  _ know  _ that? How do you  _ know _ ?”

 

Red sets his jaw, damn near snarling, “Elektra’s  _ crying  _ for the first time in  _ all  _ my years of knowing her, so excuse me if I don’t think that now’s the time for  _ fucking  _ philisophical discussions.”

 

“You don’t know, you don’t,” his face is all twisted up, damn near choking on the realization.

 

There’s something about the situation, the moment, that makes his heart stop for a fraction of a second. Ducks out from under Elektra’s hand, turning around to face her, and she’s crying, but she isn’t making any noise. Same way he does, sometimes.

 

“We’re tied together, we are, it’s our fault this keeps happening. I don’t know why, I don’t know how to stop it. Just kept on getting worse once we all ended up together and I don’t understand.”

 

Isn’t too sure why he says it, might be looking for absolution. Like it’s all his fault, like he put this all in motion when he decided to pull the fucking trigger a goddamn decade ago instead of giving up and letting dad kill him. He’s clutching onto her shirt for dear life and she’s holding his forearms so tight it hurts and as they’re staring into each other’s eyes, he thinks there’s finally something like  understanding.

 

“You need to calm down,” Red says, sterner now, “You’re  _ insane  _ and it’s not helping anyone.”

 

“Come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed it.”

 

“It comes in fives,” Elektra whispers, and she’s right, she’s fucking right.

 

Red sighs, softening up, “Yeah, there’s some coincidences, but that doesn’t mean anything. There’s nothing concrete to prove it’s anything more than circumstantial overlaps.”

 

He stays quiet because he knows he ought to. Red’s the one that keeps them all balanced, all steady. That’s what they need right now, as much as he wants Matty to understand what this is. And he needs to  _ fix  _ this, he’s the one that got it all out of order. Needs to try, at least.

 

“Elektra,” he says, gentle and serious all at once, “It’s alright, it’s okay.”

 

She just grips his arms even tighter, face all contorted as she shakes and shakes and tears keep on rolling down her cheeks.

 

“Whatever it is, is it happening right now?”

 

“No,” she snarls, teeth bared, “ _ Idiot.” _

 

“ _ Uh-huh _ , when did it happen, then?”

 

She growls, honest to god growls, glare boring into him. Means he’s right on the money, even if it’s gonna be hell to make her admit it. Might be more trouble than it’s worth but he can’t stop himself.

 

“Yeah, gets kinda mixed up, don’t it?”

 

Elektra nods, real jerky and stiff. Eases up on his forearms a mite, too, must be hurting her as much as it’s hurting him.

 

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” Red gets right close to the two of them, voice low and conspiratorial.

 

“ _ Shh, Matty, _ ” he says, nice and even, “It’s alright, really. Everything’s fine. We’re nowhere important and nothin’ much is happenin’. And look, I betcha the walls are different. Maybe the carpet. Maybe the ceiling.”

 

She lets go of his arms completely, wiping at her eyes in this strange, slow fashion. So he lets go of her shirt, smooths it out a bit to make it look a little more normal. Then, she staggers past him, settling down on their makeshift bed like a fucking wind-up doll.

 

"What did you do to her?" Red's voice goes dark, lets the Devil creep into it.

 

Doesn't have an answer for Matty, just started saying anything he could think of. Same thing he always does, always wants to save his own skin. And maybe it's more than that, something private and too much to say aloud.

 

" _ Bullseye,  _ answer me."

 

"Nothin'," he says, real spacy and vacant, "Didn't do nothin'."

 

Been holding it together awful well, all things considered, but he can't sit around and try to have a goddamn conversation. He's half sure Red's still trying to talk to him when he sets to staggering down the hallway. Just needs to get away.

 

He slips into their bedroom, weaving around the patches of blood crusted carpet in order to get to the bathroom. Shuts the door behind him and leaves the lights off, doesn't want to face whoever it'll be in the mirror. There's a thin sliver of light cutting in through the gap under the door, just enough that the dark doesn't feel so endless.

 

The countertop is cool when he rests his forehead against it, nice and slow and careful so he doesn't get any ideas 'cos it's been a bad, bad week. He just needs to breathe a second. That's all he needs.

 

Then, he drops to his knees, feeling out where the cabinets are. Makes a goddamn mess of it, taking everything out at once, and there's enough light to see by that it sets his teeth on edge to  _ not  _ organize it. All the odds and ends, arced perfectly around him, trapping him in the center.

 

He damn near overlooks the whole point of doing this in the process. The razor, tucked up in this nondescript little box. He bolts to his feet, clutching it tight to his chest. Sets it down on the counter and pops the box open and runs his fingers along the wall until he finds the outlet.

 

This'll help. It'll help. It'll be better than anything else he could do.

 

Once it's plugged in and running, he folds over the sink. Starts at the nape of his neck and works his way onwards, long, smooth strokes. There isn't much hair, but he feels it bristling across his skin as it falls into the sink. Has to keep himself braced with one hand, 'cos he sure as shit isn't holding it together now.

 

He has a process: start at the center and work out, one side at a time. Done it enough times to call it a process, to know that it's easier when it's shorter and it's easier when it's not caked in blood and it's easier when your hands are halfway steady. But two outta three ain't bad, though. He isn't shaking too much yet, anyway.

 

He's careful, thorough, even. Being able to see what he's doing is just a formality, at this point. He sets down the razor once he's finished, runs his hand over his head to make sure it's all about the same. Starts the sink running and cranes his neck after that, so he can stick his head under the water, cold as ice.

 

Stays like that until he starts seeing spots, even though he really shouldn't be seeing them in the first place at all. It's another thing to add to the list of what's wrong with him.

 

So he turns off the water and stands up, not too quick or he might fall. Lets the water run down the back of his neck, slicking his shirt to his skin. And then he weaves through the shit on the floor, opening the door carefully so as not to disturb it.

 

"What were you  _ doing?"  _ Matty stands at the doorway, doesn't even want to enter the room, but Bullseye can't blame him for that.

 

"Don't have to worry so much, Red."

 

He weaves back through the stained carpet. Only times Red's set foot in here since was when it was one of them leading the way. Like he needs something to distract him, which makes sense enough.

 

Matty holds his ground in the doorway, hands planted on his hips. Doesn't leave much of a choice other than to force past him, which Bullseye does. He shoves through, doesn't put much force in it, though.

 

Then, he makes his way back out to the living room. Feels like shit, still all stiff and listless and coiled tight, pulled taut as a drum. He's in a mood, nasty one that's gonna end with someone getting hurt if he doesn't get out of it real quick.

 

So he settles down on their makeshift bed, next to Elektra. And he really must be out to get himself killed this time, 'cos he breaks maybe the only rule they've got. Wraps his arms around her tight and  _ holds  _ her.

 

* * *

She shakes him off eventually, wakes him up about halfway when she sets to squirming, unpeeling his arms from where they're linked around her waist. Then, she sits up, buries her face in her hands, barely can see her in the grainy light.

 

It's dark, for once. They keep odd hours, but he's got the oddest hours of them all. 

 

It was still mostly day when he fell asleep, barely even dusk, but he needed to snap out of the mood he was in. He's not sure if Elektra ever made it all the way to falling asleep, though. Might have just stayed there as long as she could bear it.

 

She stands up, now. He stays lying on his back, acutely aware of how much everything goddamn hurts. There's something wrong with him, always ends up feeling like he's had the shit kicked out of him after he gets in a mood.

 

Still, she manages to catch his eyes as she walks past him. Makes it clear that this is just another one of their little secrets. He won't ask where she's going, already has a good enough idea what she's gonna do.

 

He shifts around, trying to find what position will hurt the least. Ends up on his stomach and Red reaches over, resting a palm flat against his back.

 

He makes this strange little noise on reflex; Matty must take it as a go-ahead, though, 'cos he starts running his hand over Bullseye's back, wide, smooth, circles.

 

Above all, he likes it. Sure is strange to admit it, knowing he likes Red running his hands over his back, knowing he likes it when Red holds him and kisses him and pulls him in close, knowing he wants even more than that so bad it damn near hurts. Wants all this and more even knowing what these hands have done to him.

 

He's good with numbers even if his memory's shit and, well, Red's still runner up when it comes to people who've broken his bones the most. And yeah, he's thought about it, thought about how wanting this might be some fucked up last ditch effort to keep himself whole, and maybe it's true, but maybe it isn't.

 

At the end of the day, he'd love to take Red apart, show him how  _ good  _ he can be and see if that's enough to crack his altar boy facade. Love to leave him breathless and dazed and fucked out and in awe of him and that's too selfish to really be self-preservation.

 

It's an idle thought, too much tangled up in it to really get him riled up. 

 

Red stops rubbing his back, moving his hand up to scrub over Bullseye's scalp. Feels nice, real nice, kind of gets him humming under his breath.  _ This  _ might be what puts him back to sleep.

 

"That's what you were doing?" Matty asks, real soft.

 

"Mh-hm."

 

And thankfully, Red doesn't stop. Just keeps raking his fingers across the freshly shaved hair. It’s aimless and nice and Red’s got a good enough of a rhythm to it that he lets his eyes fall shut, settling down into the sensation. 

 

It’d be perfect if Matty didn’t have to go and say something.

 

“Where did Elektra go?”

 

“Fuck if I know,” he mutters into the pillow, hopes it isn’t enough to make Red stop, “Ain’t my job to stalk her.”

 

“Well, you’re the one that did  _ whatever  _ that was to her earlier.”

 

“I didn’t do anything. I was just  _ talkin’  _ to her. You’re the one that set her off in the first place, anyway,” he has to say it, can’t abide by keeping his mouth shut even if he’s sure it’ll make Matty shove him away.

 

Red stops stroking his hair, hand resting heavy on the back of his head. But he isn’t pressing down, isn’t trying to fucking smother him, like he could be. Just leaves it there, heavy and warm and still.

 

Bullseye shrugs it off, twisting around until he’s on his side, looking at Matty, “You’re angry, aren’t you?”

 

“Of course I’m  _ angry _ , you won’t tell me what you did to my own girlfriend,” Red growls, voice low under his breath.

 

“Not just about this, you’re always angry, right? Awful good at hiding it, though. Maybe no one else can see but I know, I noticed it. Saw it in the way you move, always gotta hold yourself back ‘cos if you aren’t careful you’ll hurt someone.”

 

Red sighs, resting his hand against Bullseye’s cheek, fingers tracing up over his cheekbone, following down to his jaw, “I’m not planning on hurting you.”

 

“Not  _ anymore, _ ” he corrects, “Can you feel it? You’ve smashed them before, but I got fixed up real nice. Sometimes I think I can feel it, the fractures, where they put me all back together, all the pins and splints.”

 

“It was different then, I promise,” Red whispers, doesn’t draw his hand back.

 

“I know.”

 

“You  _ don’t  _ have to be scared of me.”

 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by his own damn suggestion, didn’t even stop to think if it was true, always has been too self absorbed for his own good.

 

“I’m not scared of you,” Bullseye says, nice and soft, “Can’t you tell?”

 

It’s the truth. Yeah, he’s gotten scared, real scared, during fights but that’s only ‘cos he gets in a bad way when he’s cornered. Something’s broken inside of him, makes it so he can’t think when he’s in a scrap he can’t get out of.

 

Red’s too stubborn to admit he’s right, anyway. But he keeps thumbing over Bullseye’s jaw, so fucking gentle that it makes him shiver. He lets his eyes fall shut, smiling under Red’s touch. It’s good like this, never felt so whole in his life.

 

He won’t bring up Handsome. It’ll just ruin the moment if he reminds Matty that he’s supposed to be worried. Besides, she sure as shit can take care of herself, probably is out there raising Cain on her own while he’s keeping Red distracted.

 

Not that he’s doing too good of a job of that, damn near half asleep already just from Matty running his hands through his hair, tracing along his shoulder and the back of his neck.

 

* * *

He wakes up to water running in the apartment, something about it slices through the haze of still being half asleep, right down to his core. It feels like a memory, or something, but it’s all twisted up and tattered and so hard to make out.

 

Sets his teeth on edge so bad he sits up right away, doesn’t even care that he might wake up Matty. He folds over himself, fucking jack-knifing with his forehead resting against his knees, hands laced  behind his head, just trying to breathe.

 

If Red notices, he’s not all that concerned, probably figures it isn’t his problem. 

 

Maybe he’s being mean, healing does take a lot out of you, he knows that more than anyone, but he really, really wishes Matty would just wake up and make sure he’s alright and all that.

 

But he doesn't, so Bullseye gets up. Just a bit too quick, almost loses balance, which really says he's in a bad way, even if he's not sure what's the big fucking deal now. Then, he follows the sound, aren't many places where it could be coming from, but he still feels groggy and slow and confused, like he's trying to run in a dream.

 

He wanders out into the kitchen, footsteps echoing off of the tile, so damn cold he can feel it in his bones. Handsome's at the sink, bent over it, both hands combing through her hair as the water runs.

 

"Yours or someone else's?" He whispers.

 

Elektra looks at him, eyes wild through her hair, "What?"

 

"The blood."

 

He scrubs over his scalp on instinct. Was a lot younger when he did it the first time. His hair was longer then and he spent a good while trying to get it out, but it was stubborn as hell, all clotted in the stupid fucking rat's nest of his hair. 

 

So he cut it off, made things easier. Probably left the cops with some questions but he didn't know about that type of thing then.

 

"Do not be  _ preposterous,"  _ she hisses.

 

He leans back against the counter, looking up at the ceiling, eyes catching on the stains and thinking on where they could've came from, "I know you. You had to go out and blow off some steam. 'Course it's blood, otherwise you wouldn't be tryin' to wash it out in the kitchen sink before your boyfriend wakes up."

 

She sighs, dipping her head back down, "You cannot tell Matthew."

 

"You gotta understand he already  _ knows. _ "

 

"Yes," she speaks through gritted teeth, "But we do not  _ acknowledge  _ that."

 

“How’s that workin’ out for you two?” 

 

He laughs, sharp and empty, when she makes this low, growling sound. He’s being mean, done his own fair share of lying to Matty. 

 

It’s probably to keep Red sane, anyway. Makes it easier to forget about the smell of blood coating the inside of his throat. Bullseye’s broken his nose enough times to know what that feels like, how you could almost drown in it.

 

So he decides he oughta start being a bit nicer, “Did it help, at least?”

 

Elektra doesn’t grace him with an answer, just keeps on washing out her hair. He’s not so nice that he’d offer to help, but he’ll keep her company whether she wants it or not. Just stays there, kitchen counter digging into his back, eyes cast up to the ceiling.

 

“That’s why I do it, too, you know,” he’s focused on the water stain fanning out from the corner, “To get that kinda clarity, so everything makes sense for once.”

 

Elektra shuts the water off, letting the room go dead silent for a fraction of a second, “We are  _ not  _ alike. You are on an utterly careless path of self destruction because you think you need pain to function.”

 

“Pretty fucking ironic, huh?”

 

She's kidding herself if she thinks she isn't being self destructive. They all are. That's why they're here, that's why they're all wrapped around each other, choking the life out of each other's eyes every night.

 

But he won't say it, doesn't want to own up to it any more than she wants to. No, he just stays there, near her as she dries the mess of hair with one of their kitchen towels.

 

* * *

Matty ends up taking him to go pick up his suit. 

 

Elektra hadn't said much at all, but he’d figured out that this was how it's supposed to be by the way she had crawled into bed once she was all cleaned up. She had been asleep by the time Red had woken up and  _ he  _ hadn't done much more than make some coffee, drown it with cream and nurse that in lieu of eating anything.

 

Red had woken her up and she’d muttered out something about money being in her bag and then she’d rolled back over. Didn't tell them where the shop was, but he’d remembered anyway, always has remembered how to get from one place to another.

 

So here they are now, walking to the stupid fucking tailor. And maybe if things were so, so different, if they were a real couple, they'd be holding hands instead of staying  _ just _ close enough that he doesn't lose Red.

 

He's never been much of a romantic but he's always had a jealous streak a mile wide and the way Matty is around Elektra just seems to get to him. It's been quiet lately, but something's getting to him, making him want these things again.

 

He  _ wants  _ Red to take him out to dinner and he  _ wants  _ Red to kiss him all smooth and sly and secret and he  _ wants  _ Red to take him apart afterwards, while he's still all relaxed and in a good mood from dinner. He wants to be  _ special _ , get all dolled up and hit the fucking town.

 

But it isn't so bad that he'll be weak, just be Elektra for Matty 'cos that's what he wants. He's selfish, too, wants to make Matty want him so damn completely.

 

"Are you sure you know where we're going?" Red's voice brings him back to the moment, cutting through his thoughts and letting them unravel.

 

"Yeah, of course."

 

He's hoping it's not a lie because at the end of the day, he did black out for a while there. Might've missed a detail or two.

 

And then, he admits, even quieter, "It's just been hard to think lately. But I know where it is. Honestly."

 

Keeps on thinking about how one day, he'll have to tell Red about losing time, but that's not something that has to happen now. All he's gotta do is get the two of them to the tailor and back to the apartment.

 

He stops for a second, closing his eyes and trying to clear his thoughts as the people keep on thronging around him. Figures Red might be getting away from him, leaving him all on his lonesome in the crowd, but he can't worry too much. Just has to settle down.

 

He comes back to himself pretty quick after he manages to relax, opening his eyes back up and scanning the crowd for Matty.

 

"Red?" He asks, doesn't have to yell for Matty to hear him, doesn't want to draw a crowd either, "Matty, are you still here?"

 

Sounds awful pathetic like this, standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk at midday, calling out for Red. And the worst part is, he's worried all over again, like he might've just been ditched or someone got to Matty and he missed it, or he's just been wandering around all alone all morning.

 

Whips around real fast at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, poised to attack, but it's just Matty.

 

"Where'd you go?" He mutters, more anger to it than he needs.

 

"I didn't want to join you in being the spectacle of the sidewalk, so I went off to the side to wait out whatever  _ that _ was alone, without a peanut gallery."

 

He scowls, glaring down at his boots, "No one ever stares at you in New York. Not unless there's somethin' real wrong going on."

 

He's had more public outbursts than he cares to admit. Never can seem to keep a handle on himself when he's around so many other people. They're like a swarm out here, setting him off something awful.

 

Red's hand moves up along his shoulder, until his fingers are flush with the back of Bullseye's head, thumb tracing over the side of his jaw. He'd kiss Matty right now, right in the middle of everyone, if he thought he could get away with it.

 

"You're still alright?" Red asks, real gentle, still running his hand over his scalp.

 

"Yeah," he hisses, "I'm fine."

 

And, well, he's a dead man walking already. Might not even make it through the weekend. On their goddamn way to pick up a funerary suit for each of 'em, which is so fitting it hurts.

 

So he acts, so quick that no one can change their mind. Rests a hand against the back of Red's neck and pulls him in real fast, just enough force to get Matty where he wants him, but not so much he can't get away.

 

His eyes flutter shut when he leans in, perfect goddamn movie kiss. Like they're the only two people in the world. Lets his fingers twist around Matty's hair, makes Red moan into his mouth.

 

He breaks away after that, smiling all big like he's awful pleased with himself. And Red just wipes away the spit from his lips with the back of his hand.

 

"You shouldn't do that again," Matty warns.

 

"Oh come  _ on,"  _ he laughs, still grinning like a madman, "We're the fucking Kingpin of New York, I'd like to see them try and stop us, Matty."

 

"Mm, yes, but that's our dirty little secret, isn't it? We can't have you taking anyone out in broad daylight, yeah?" Even with what he's saying, Red's still smiling for him, still has a hand pressed against him, "Besides, if we're going to do this, we won't do it here."

 

The twinge in his gut tells him he already knows the answer, but he asks anyway, shit eating grin 'cos he's trying to catch Matty in the act, "And what exactly _ are  _ we doing, Red?"

 

Red just smiles that devilish smile of his, like he's saying  _ oh, you'll see.  _ And it's enough to drive him wild, burning everything else out of his thoughts other than Matty, Matty, Matty.

 

* * *

Red leads him off somewhere quiet, private, would almost be out of place if he didn't figure that somewhere, deep down inside, Red gets off on this. He likes the publicity so long as he's still anonymous, and Bullseye isn't one to judge.

 

Ends up backed into a wall as soon as they're alone, and then he's kissing Red again, parting his lips as he tangles his hands in Matty's hair, pulling him in so they're as close as can be. 

 

He pauses for a second, head buried in the crook of Red's neck, catching his breath. But he doesn't have long to get himself together, 'cos Matty slips a hand up under his shirt, fingers hooked in his waistband, tracing along the taut skin of his belly.

 

"Didn't figure you'd be the type for this," he straightens up, smiling at Red, watching his face for any sign of change.

 

Matty smiles that terrible smile again, pops open the top button of his pants, "You never know me as well as you think you do."

 

"I know you better than you think."

 

"Yeah? Is that so?" Red laughs, like it’s a secret between just the two of them.

 

Finally follows through, though, hand slipping down his pants. It's everything he's ever wanted, Matty taking him apart, driving him crazy. Nice and careful and just gentle enough.

 

" _ Fuck _ , Red," he laughs, breathless, ends up punctuating it with this terrible needy sound.

 

He buries his face against Matty again to quiet himself down, they really  _ are  _ still just barely off the street. Starts grabbing out for anything at all, catching Red's hair, the back of his shirt, holding it as  tight as he can.

 

And he figures he might as well kill two birds with one stone, starts mouthing at the exposed skin of Matty's neck while he can still think. Wants to do something for Red, anything at all to keep this up.

 

"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?"

 

"Mm, yeah, yeah," he whispers, doesn't even care about how it sounds, how desperate he is.

 

“Good, I want you to enjoy yourself  _ for me _ .”

 

Something about  _ that  _ and the rhythm Matty’s working at just gets to him. Probably says a thing or two about him but he really, really, doesn’t care about that right now. Doesn’t care about much of  anything.

 

And then he tenses up, whole body pulled taut. Ends up on his damn tip-toes, legs threatening to give out but Matty keeps him steady. Relaxes not too long after that, sighs and folds against Red, doesn't even care about how he's just spent the last several minutes with his back pressed against a wall.

 

He's all blissed out, on cloud fucking nine, grinning like an idiot, feels like he's in his right mind for the first time in a good while. Still feels all warm and good, albeit breathless, even after Matty takes his hand away. 

 

"Thank you," he sets to trailing kisses down Red's jaw, feeling how flushed and warm his skin is, "Thank you, Red, Christ, you're perfect."

 

It might go to Matty's head, thanking him for all that, but it's the one damn thing he can think to say. And then he fumbles with the button on his pants, trying to sort himself out a little bit.

 

"We're going to be late," Matty laughs, "And we'll have to get cleaned up there."

 

"Well  _ excuse  _ me, I wasn't exactly  _ planning _ on letting you finger fuck me in an alley when we headed out this morning."

 

"Good Lord, Bullseye," Matty kisses him once more, real quick, smiling against his mouth, "I'm not mad. You don't have to get all defensive."

 

He scowls, biting his tongue so he doesn’t say anything more. Feels all twisted up and terrible and twitchy now that it’s over, like he’s given Red some kind of leverage by letting this happen. Not that he wasn’t already wrapped around Red’s little finger, willing to do anything he says.

 

He wasn’t always like this, really. Wasn’t always so pathetic, so needy.

 

Just keeps his mouth shut and his hands clenched to fists, staring right at the cracked asphalt ‘cos even if Matty can’t see him, he sure as shit can’t meet his eyes.

 

“Seriously?” Red asks, “What’s the problem?”

 

“Stop tryin’ to talk to me.”

 

Really, honestly, Matty never even had him pinned to the wall, not properly, but for some reason, he still ends up forcing Red away. Needs some space, probably. Needs to get his head fucking screwed on right.

 

“Was it something I said?” Red just stays where he ended up after getting shoved, adds a little bit softer, “I thought you wanted this.”

 

“I did, I did,” he runs his fingers over the middle button of his jacket, wanted it more than Red will ever know, “I don’t know. Can we just fuckin’ go already?”

 

“ _ Fine _ . It’s like you  _ want  _ to be insufferable and too frustrating to spend any amount of time around.”

 

“Maybe you’re right,” he growls.

 

* * *

He ends up sitting alone and ashamed in the tailor’s lobby while Red fucks off to the bathroom. Isn’t any reason behind getting so twisted up about this, but he can’t manage to get his head back on straight. 

 

It’s not like he’s ever cared about the sanctity of relationships, or whatever, so it’s not like he’s too bothered by the idea of  _ having  _ Red when they’re all alone. No, it’s something else, something broken, deep down inside of him.

 

The receptionist behind the front desk has been staring at him, too, which all just makes this worse. Gets him glaring down at his feet, face flushed to hell and back.

 

“Excuse me?” She asks, “Are you here to pick something up?”

 

He’s still staring down at the hardwood floor as he mutters, “I’m waiting for someone.”

 

“If I could just get your name,  _ please _ ? I’ll get your order and then you won’t have to wait for a room to try it on.”

 

“I  _ said _ , I’m  _ waiting,”  _ he growls, hunched over like he’s gearing up to throttle her.

 

She shuts up right quick after that, leaving the two of them in silence save for where he starts furiously tapping his foot against the floor. Needs something to do, there’s nothing to keep his hands busy that wouldn’t make her keep on staring at him.

 

And then Red slips into the room like nothing ever happened. He doesn’t even look up, knows it’s Red by his stupidly over-confident gait anyway.

 

“Mister Murdock?” The receptionist asks, makes him feel all the more fucked up and aimlessly angry, “Miss Natchios didn’t tell me you’d be coming! I assume you’re here for her order?”

 

“Well, it’s for  _ him _ ,” Red says, and Bullseye looks up just in time to see him gesturing his way.

 

The receptionist looks more than a little confused and maybe he’d get some kind of smug satisfaction out of it on another day, but today he just wants to get in a fucking fight, see if that’ll get everyone to leave him alone.

 

“Oh, uh, he didn’t tell me that he was a friend of you guys. I’ll have it right out.”

 

“He’s not the most social person,” Red laughs, in that way people always do when they’re trying to make an excuse, “And would you be so kind as to see if there’s anything left that would fit me? I have money enough for both but I think it’s time I picked up something newer.”

 

“Absolutely, Mister Murdock, I’ll be right back.”

 

She darts off somewhere into the depths of the store, like if she isn’t fast enough, they won’t pay her. Figures that Handsome would scare the shit out of everyone, acts like she’s all nice but odds are, most of it’s a lie.

 

“You  _ know  _ her?” He asks, doesn’t look quite at Red.

 

“I know lots of people. That’s what happens when you work for a community.”

 

* * *

The suit fits him damn perfectly even if he doesn’t remember much of anything about getting fitted for it. Got the bits and pieces and the outburst and how fucking disappointed Elektra was that he’s so  _ broken,  _ but not much else. 

 

He looks good in it, too. Black and white and sleek, modern, fits like a glove, makes him wonder if Elektra isn’t right about the whole ‘keeping up appearances’ thing. He couldn’t abide by it becoming his new uniform, but every once in a while, well. He could get used to that.

 

Red gets something or other for the funeral, too. Probably got his little receptionist friend to pull some strings, still playing at being a high and mighty lawyer-man. Most people probably don’t even know that he’s not one anymore. 

 

Won’t point that out, though, he likes the satisfaction of knowing Matty’s a dirty fucking liar.

 

And then Red pays, looks awful uncomfortable to be using Elektra’s trust fund. It’s all blood money anyways, every last dollar in every person’s pocket. One day, Red’s gonna have to learn that there’s no way to live without getting it on you.

 

They head home after that, still refusing to say much of anything to each other. Which is good, there’s nothing worth talking about. He got what he wanted and still wasn’t happy with it and he’s not interested in anything Matty wants to say on the matter.

 

Elektra’s gonna have a thing or two to say, though. They wasted hours and hours on this shit, probably got  _ worried,  _ but she doesn’t really seem like the type for that. He’s a little bit scared of how she’ll react, if the agreement still stands.  _ You can do whatever you want as long as you do not leave a mark on him. _

 

Maybe he’s scared of her. Maybe he’s still fucking jealous. Maybe he wishes he was in her skin and she was in his and he could be everyone’s first choice for once. Doesn’t really matter, anyway. He still feels like shit, no matter what it is.

 

And when they finally make it back to the apartment, Elektra’s alone in the kitchen with the lights off, blinds drawn, sitting at the table in a robe. She’s nursing a glass of water, like she’s hungover, had a wild night rather than a fucking breakdown.

 

Matty starts off kissing up to her right away, shuts the door behind them and immediately sets to it, “I’m sorry, Elektra, I--”

 

It sure as shit sounds like he’s apologizing for a lot more than just taking too long to get the suits. He knows Red doesn’t apologize often, either, seems to be too damn stubborn to ever get that far.

 

“Where  _ were  _ you?” Elektra’s face is all twisted up, voice strained, “I have been  _ waiting,  _ hour after hour, hoping you would come back to me.”

 

“It took a little longer than expected,” Matty says, rubs the back of his neck all sheepish like.

 

“I can tell,” she growls, hands wrapped around her glass so tight it might just shatter.

 

“We got  _ distracted,  _ okay, dear?”

 

Bullseye cocks his head to the side, giving her this shiteating grin, “Your boyfriend got a little bit…  _ handsy.  _ I think mister altar boy Matty might be a pervert.”

 

That makes her smile, just a bit, low noise sort of like a laugh choking out. But it doesn’t last long, face just kind of falls and it’s so genuine, he’d almost feel bad if he was the type.

 

“You were almost killed only a week ago, Matthew, what was I supposed to conclude from you taking hours to accomplish a task that could be done in less than one?”

 

“We got our suits,” he says, “Got home alive, in one piece, and Matty’s  _ fine.  _ You don’t have to worry about him.”

 

“ _ Either _ of you could have been dead for hours and I would not have even known,” she says, and it’s true, but he’s pretty damn sure it’s not worth it to think like that.

 

It’s never been worth it to get too invested in the wellbeing of anyone, not if you can’t help it. Just makes it hard to do what needs to be done. Never really knew what that felt like until now, but he’s seen enough people torn apart by it to know it’s gonna happen one way or another.

 

“Are you at least doing better?” Red asks, “Last night was hard on all of us.”

 

“Matthew. Stop attempting to avoid this conversation.”

 

It’s nice knowing he’s not the target for once, knowing she’s not mad at him or trying to needle him into talking or goddamn interrogating him. And it’s nice to see Red all sheepish and awkward, tripping over himself. Wouldn’t want it to be like this all the time, but for now, it’s almost entertaining.

 

“We need to run a tighter operation if we are truly going through with this. That means no more  _ wandering  _ pointlessly and becoming distracted by any little thing that catches your eye. We are not safe and we will not be  _ safe  _ unless we have  _ control  _ of this situation.”

 

It’s funny, almost. He finally, finally understands why Red and Handsome keep ending up together.

 

“Well,” he says, settling back against the wall, next to the front door, and it isn’t reinforced but he’s not letting his thoughts run wild with how quickly bullets cut through drywall, no, he’s fine, he’s got his head screwed on right and he’s just fucking peachy, “Your socialite angle will help with that. Paps make good shields. Flock around you, make it hard to get a good shot. Most people don’t want to deal with the hassle of collateral damage and, well, the best in the business is off the market now.”

 

Matty cocks his head at that, still is out of the loop, “Socialite angle?”

 

“Elektra’s trying to be the next  _ Gloria Vanderbilt _ ,” he draws out the name with the flare of an announcer, shooting her this crooked half smile, just makes her grimace at the comparison.

 

And then she sighs, almost like a surrender, “We cannot manage to take Fisk’s place if we do not win in the court of public opinion. We need to ensure that everyone is willing to look the other way and come to our side  _ proclaiming  _ our innocence if there is even the slightest  _ question,  _ Matthew.”

 

“And of course she’s only got so much money to start us off with, but well, that’s where being the new Kingpin comes in. We can’t just stop everything, but we can control it. Set limits and rules and all that shit you love, Red, but squeeze some money out of them, too. You want us to let you work in peace? Pay up.”

 

“I--” Matty stammers, “I,  _ we _ , we can’t do  _ that _ .”

 

“Oh,  _ please,”  _ he laughs, “We aren’t gonna racketeer the pigs, Red. Dunno why you still trust them after all this shit we’ve been through, but I know you’ve got some sort of soft spot for them. And I figure we can win their favor if we turn over people who aren’t keen on following our rules.”

 

“I don’t like this,” Matty says, more authority to it this time around.

 

“This will keep us  _ safe _ . We will end up just like Fisk if we are not careful. Even if we do not take his place, someone will come for us and this is the best chance we have for surviving that day.”

 

Elektra looks sad, but more than that, she looks awful tired, bone-deep, achingly, exhausted. Says she’s been mulling over this a while, like she’s the only one that’s been thinking of the technicalities of the situation they’re in. 

 

Which sounds about right, ‘cos he’s been out of his head too long to be any use, but he’ll make it up to them. He will. He’s even got a couple ideas on how he’ll fix it, or at least get it fixed enough that Handsome can take over and he can stop feeling so goddamn useless.

 

“Hey, Matty?” He asks as gentle as he can, doesn’t want to upset Red all that much, “You got any reporter friends? Think you could pull any strings?”

 

Red turns towards him, hard to read him behind those glasses of his, “ _ Why?” _

 

“Well, ‘Lektra got all that press coverage at that whole ‘ _ memorial’  _ thing Fisk set up. Got her fresh in everybody’s mind. So she’s gonna make another appearance at Fisky’s funeral and we’re gonna make sure  _ everybody  _ knows about it.”

 

Elektra looks down at her hands folded in front of her, resting on the table, “It is a good idea, Matthew.”

 

“It lines up good, real good. Everyone loves a conspiracy. She’s back in town for the anniversary of her dear old dad’s murder and next thing you know, the guy hosting it ends up decaptitated and left on display in the middle of Fifth fucking Avenue.”

 

“And what will we do about the issues of the police sketches of myself and Matthew?” Elektra worries at her lips, but it’s not enough to stop her from glaring right at him like she’s expecting a perfect explanation.

 

“Do you really think anyone cares about those anymore?” He shrugs, “Besides, you look half wild in yours, get all dolled up and nobody there would think you’re the murderous freak in the sketch.”

 

Elektra frowns, like she's almost insulted at the idea that she might look like some half-feral, wild-eyed thing in the sketch. She's always scary, but it's worst of all when she looks like that. He still remembers her eyes in the alleyway, the frenzied way she attacked that guy.

 

“Alright,” Red says, real final about it, “I’ll go see him tomorrow. Who knows if he’ll even want to see me at all, though.”

 

It still is strange, thinking that Red's got friends on the other side of this life. He's never been one for dual identities, can barely keep up with one without going out of his fucking head.

 

“Thank you,” he keeps his voice real soft, like if he’s quiet enough, Matty won’t think too much about it.

 

“Matthew,” Elektra’s speaking just as softly, both trying to make this all easier on Red, “You are not doing this merely for me. We will all benefit from this.”

 

Red frowns, probably can’t even fathom how it’ll play out in his favor. But it will, as hard as this will all be, he’ll still come out on top. Doesn’t even realize how damn lucky he is, oblivious bastard.

 

“What she means to say is, Matty, Handsome’s not the only one that’s gonna be in the limelight. You’re her  _ boyfriend  _ and the more people think about you as Matt Murdock, Elektra Natchios’ live-in trophy boyfriend, the less they’ll think about you as Matt Murdock, disgraced lawyer, accused of murder.”

 

“And where do  _ you  _ fit in all of this?” Red asks, head cocked to the side.

 

_ Good fucking question,  _ but he won’t say that. Wants to build up as much confidence in this harebrained plan that Matty’s comfortable enough to help them pull it off. So he grits his teeth and tries to ignore the incredibly shitty hand he’s been dealt.

 

“I’m the  _ bodyguard,”  _ he grimaces, “Gives a reason why I’m always around you two, gives a reason why I live here, and people’ve already seen me with her, back at Fisk’s stupid party. Said I was the bodyguard then and there’s no point in changing the story. Probably already got pictures of the two of us.”

 

* * *

Matty’s meeting with his friend takes a good while. Hard to tell if it’s good news or bad, really could go either way. But they’ve been waiting around for hours now, staying close to the cafe where Red’s pal decided to meet him, but not so close that the journalist would clue in on it.

 

They’re both on edge, worried about Red. Still hasn’t quite gotten over finding Matty in the bedroom, hasn’t stopped thinking about how things would’ve gone if they’d been too fucking late. And Red’s so careless, doesn’t seem to give a shit about himself. Too caught up on saving everybody else, never learned that saving your own skin is all that really matters.

 

So, yeah, they’re nervous. 

 

Elektra’s awful secretive about it, though. But even she’s got tells. And neither of them are gonna cop to it, habits are hard to break and being nervous will get you killed. Never confess to anything, not even when there’s a gun pointed to your head.

 

Red walks around the block a few times after he’s done, like they agreed on. Told him to shake any tails, friendly or otherwise, before joining them. Better to be careful, these days.

 

“How’d it go?” Bullseye’s the first to speak once Red meets them.

 

Matty purses his lips, hands clasped tight, “He’ll do it.”

 

“Yeah, and?” When he says it, Red doesn’t even react, so he continues, “What’s the catch?”

 

There’s always a fucking catch, anyone who says otherwise is a dirty liar. Worst kind, too, acting like they’re _good._ Doing this out of the _kindness_ of their _heart_. As if that means anything at all.

 

“I,” Matty hangs his head, another one of those strange silent prayers, “I think he just wanted to chew me out. He spent half the meeting telling me I should know better, he’s always thought I was a good man, there’s better ways to do this, and so on. But he also said I’ve saved him enough times that he owes me one. So he’ll do it.”

 

“And you trust this man?” Elektra narrows his eyes, picking Red apart, voice severe and sharp.

 

“With my  _ life _ , Elektra, right hand to God.”


	9. part ix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a SUPER long final chapter!

He doesn't even remember how they got here. Pains him to admit it, but he's more rattled by this whole funeral thing than he ever thought was possible. All he knows is that he managed as much as getting all dolled up and Red and Handsome made sure he got there in one piece.

 

They're early, scoping the place out a bit. He knows there’s a slim chance they'll be killed here; Wes isn't the type for the spectacle of a public execution in front of  _ civilians.  _ Especially not the ones he used to rub shoulders with, always likes to keep up appearances.

 

He figures maybe, in some fucked up way, Wesley loved Fisk. That's what this feels like, which might be why it's making the hair on the back of his neck stand up so bad. It's gruesome, terrible, holding them all hostage like this. Making them mourn to save their necks.

 

They aren't the only ones hanging around, though. Other people,  _ normal  _ people, are starting to line up, too. It's hard to think of Fisk as anything other than a man in need of a hired gun, but he knows Fisk had his hands in everything, even this side of the world..

 

He's antsy in crowds, but he's also antsy when there aren't enough people around, too. Might just never feel safe anywhere.

 

He blends in well enough, but that isn't the point today. Needs to be seen with the two of them, needs everyone to know that he's on their side. Both to get it in the public's mind that he's tied to them and to make it clear to anyone from his line of work that he's off the market.

 

Needs to get out of his own damn head, too, before he really has to play his part. Especially since Red's reporter friend saunters up to the three of them.

 

"Good to see you, Matthew, it's been a while," he says, like they didn't plan it this way, like they didn't just see each other a day or so ago, "Elektra, you're looking lovely as ever. One day we'll have a story centered around you that isn't so dismal."

 

Elektra lets the journalist take her hand, squeezing it for a second, "Thank you, Ben. I imagine our paths will cross often, now that I have returned to the United States permanently."

 

Isn't even talking about him, but the name still gets to him. She's right. He's broken and weak and never been cut out for this kind of life. Meant to stay behind the curtain, always makes everything play out right and no one ever sees him.

 

"I look forward to it," the journalist laughs, then turns towards him, "And  _ you.  _ I've  _ always _ wanted an exclusive with you. Not to sound conceited but none of the others have ever asked the right questions to get anywhere in an interview."

 

"Oh,  _ fuck off,"  _ he growls, knows he has to play nice but this is too damn much.

 

"Really! Since the very beginning! I'd love to pick your brain."

 

"I bet you  _ fucking  _ would."

 

Matty rests a hand against the back of his neck, idly thumbing over his scalp, "Bullseye…"

 

Doesn't even have to tell him to behave, already is on his best behavior, gonna bend over backwards to follow instructions. He's always been this way with employers but Red isn't even an employer and, god, now they're  _ involved _ and he's never had to navigate a situation like this before.

 

But he hates reporters, always has. Fucking vultures, always want to unravel him, layer by layer, until there's nothing left. Until they've got everything about him written down and cataloged and he's nothing but an empty shell. Which is why he’s talked an awful lot but never gotten anywhere near the truth.

 

He oughta just be happy with the attention he's getting, but he's not. Feels all twisted up and tense and on edge and ready to strike out at anyone who gets too close.

 

"Everyone's a fucking  _ voyeur _ ," he growls under his breath, "Wants to see me peeled back and bare. On display for all of you."

 

The journalist looks him over, head to toe, like he's sizing him up, "I just want the  _ truth _ ."

 

"No one  _ really  _ does."

 

" _ Enough _ ," Red says, still touching him ever so slightly in that damn way that says  _ be good for me, alright? _

 

It's always just a secret between the two of them. He'll never get to have Red like Elektra does, but he's hoping it'll be enough to have him all private-like, never let anyone know how lucky he is, how he's the only man that's gotten Matty like this.

 

"We must be careful," Elektra hisses, "Lest Wesley find us in a situation we do not want him to know about."

 

She's talking about the reporter, doesn't much matter if Red's touching him 'cos Wesley's already got his mind made up on what they're doing together. Still makes his skin crawl just thinking about it, doesn't even have the high ground anymore. Can’t say they've never even fucked, that he doesn’t just do this because Red gets him off, as of two days ago.

 

So far, everyone’s been kind of chattering amongst themselves already, couldn’t resist the pull of gossip, all flocked around the cathedral, which is what makes it so damn strange when everyone falls silent. Gives him this twisted feeling of dread in his stomach, like they’re all about to get cut down by gunfire. Isn’t Wesley’s style, isn’t the Hand’s style either. That was Fisk’s game, pulling the strings of New York City from behind the scenes.

 

And now he’s dead, laid up in that fucking church. 

 

Doesn’t do anything to calm Bullseye’s nerves though. The familiar pressure of his costume, hidden nice and safe under his suit, his own little secret, isn’t enough to get him to settle. Just keeps getting antsier and antsier thinking about what might get every damn person on the block to go all quiet. Gets the answer soon enough, though; limousine crawling down the street on its belly, flanked by the  pigs, making the whole fucking world hold its breath. 

 

The reporter turns away from him, finally found something more interesting to gawk at. He’s snapping pictures of the procession, gets a few shots then pauses to jot down a couple notes in his little notebook. This guy is Red’s friend, so he won’t do anything he’ll regret, but he can already tell that he and the journalist will never be friends.

 

The limo grinds to a stop in front of the church and Wes steps out, followed by the two Hand guys from dinner. Looks somber as hell, looks like he believes the lie about this being something everyone needs.

 

People move out of his way left and right, parting the crowd for this perfect straight shot to the doors of the cathedral. It’s so impossibly, painfully strange, seeing Wesley command a crowd like that, and he can’t choke back a laugh, frantic and uncontrolled. Scared, almost.

 

Feels like he’s the only damn thing making a sound in the entire fucking city and of course,  _ of course _ , Wes picks him out of the crowd in an instant, glaring right at him. And he can’t, can’t stop it, feels like he’s caught in some fucking nightmare.

 

Elektra claps a hand over his mouth and he goes stock still. Won’t bite her so she’ll let go, as much as his gut tells him he oughta do that.

 

“You need to get a hold of yourself,” Matty says, still rubbing the back of his neck all gentle-like, “It’s one day of your life, Bullseye. We’ll make it up to you, I promise. But you have to make it through  this first without ruining everything.”

 

“Will you be quiet?” Elektra drops her voice down low, whispering right in his ear.

 

He nods, still kind of pliable and limp under her touch. Gonna behave himself, so they'll make it up to him. Just has to make it through today.

 

The journalist is watching him again, makes his fucking skin crawl. Knows the reporter's piecing things together, finding new ways to stab him in the back. Might as well just own up to it, tell the nosy little fucker just what the arrangement is.

 

But he decides against it, doesn't want anyone else making any insinuations about what's going on here, doesn't want to show his full hand to anyone at all.

 

Elektra lets go of him, smoothing her fingers over his shoulder like she's straightening out his suit, "Good. Stay quiet and observant, tell me immediately if you see anyone we should be concerned about."

 

"Jeezus, Handsome, we'll be here all day. Already damn near walked into the Owl earlier. Said I oughta come work for him now that I'm unemployed."

 

"I meant anyone that may try to kill us in the present moment," she hisses.

 

And Red cuts in, soon as she's done, "What did you tell him?"

 

"That I'm  _ taken. _ Don't think anyone else knows yet. I figure they assume I started the war as part of a job and that's why they haven't seen hide nor hair of me since," he looks down at his hands, kind of transfixed by the white of his gloves, "I thought you two talked to everybody, told them to stay on our side. What happened?"

 

"We didn't have enough of a plan to move forward with anything. We kept the peace and things went back to normal, save for the power vacuum, made friends where we could and that's why we're still here today," Red admits, small and private in the middle of the crowd.

 

"You were so sickly then," Elektra says it so plainly that he feels like he oughta know what that means, but he doesn't, "And weak, broken. We needed to make a choice between you and them."

 

He gives this crooked, questioning smile, "And you picked me? Seriously?"

 

Red's face gets all twisted up, almost like he's upset and fucking hell, Bullseye doesn't even care that the journalist is hearing all of this. Getting all their secrets, probably jotting them down for some scathing exposé.

 

"Christ, really? You two could've had everything. You knew me--not the kind of knowing that comes when you figure out how to beat a guy-- _ really _ knew me, what, two weeks then?"

 

“It’s not that easy,” Red frowns.

 

And then the journalist taps Red on the shoulder, "I'll catch up with you later, okay?"

 

The rest of the crowd weaves around them, got the go-ahead to get inside when Wes made it all the way in. They'll follow soon enough, gotta make an appearance to save their fucking skins, but for now he's just trying to roll all  _ that _ around in his head.

 

Can't tell if it makes all this better or worse if they  _ care  _ about him or some shit. Kind of makes him want to up and cry but there's no point in that, doesn't want any strangers thinking he's got a soft spot for the dead man.

 

When they're well and truly alone, at least, alone as you ever get in the city, Red kisses the side of his cheek real quick, real secretive. Wishes it was just a bit longer so he could close his eyes and lean into it, but there's so many people around, so many cameras.

 

"Let's go inside, hey?"

 

"Yeah, yeah, alright."

 

* * *

The cathedral is huge, vaulted ceilings, oughta fit all the people lined up around the block with ease. Makes him feel awful small, swallowed up by the doorway towering over his head as soon as he steps through the threshold.

 

This isn’t what he does, isn’t what people pay him for. 

 

Never been one of the ones that gets off on revisiting the scene of the crime, seeing the body, sure, they say he takes “trophies” but he’s always had sticky fingers. And no one would accuse him of being squeamish, having a weak stomach, not if they’ve got any sense, ‘cos that’s not what it is. He’s just haunted enough already.

 

“I can’t do this,” he breathes, so quiet that only Red can understand, “Wes saw me already, let me leave.”

 

“I’m not letting you get us killed,” Red whispers back, soft and plain and simple, “It’s one day.”

 

“Then pay me. Say it’s a job and I’ll do whatever you want.”

 

He’s almost desperate. Hates it here and hates the fact that Wesley knew this would get to him more than anything.

 

Elektra hisses, “We will talk about this later.”

 

He shuts up right quick after that. Crosses his arms and scowls and follows Red and Handsome further into the church. The pews are already filled up, wasted too much time outside, and he knows more of these people than he’d like to admit. Worked for them or with them or against them.

 

Either way, it makes him feel safer standing at the very back. 

 

Matty rests his cane against the final pew, holding onto the back of the bench so tight his knuckles are bone white. Elektra keeps her hands clasped, resting by her hip, probably has her swords on her right now ‘cos old habits die hard. And he’s not doing much of anything, keeping focus on the two of them, barely listening to the service.

 

Still is keeping an eye on everything, though. Anyone that stands out, anyone that might be a threat. There’s plenty of vantage places in here, good if you’re going for scorched earth. Shots go off and, well, half the mourners are armed and the fucking acoustics, no one could figure out what’s happening, it’d be chaos. They’d do half the work for you.

 

He’s been putting too much money on the idea that Wesley’s doing this out of obligation, like he owes it to the dead man.

 

But everything seems legitimate so far, so much that it’s painful. The flowers, the programs, the fucking casket, so dark it’s like a goddamn black hole in the center of the room and he keeps on having to look at it sideways so he’ll keep his head level.

 

And Wes is up there blathering away, asking if anyone would like to say some words, and yeah, yeah, he’d like to say some fucking  _ words,  _ but all he can think about is how they’re all dead already and how twisted up and sick he feels and how he’s giving off the wrong impression to everyone here. 

 

Supposed to make it clear that they’re a  _ team  _ and they’re the ones that killed Fisk, so they’re the ones on top now, but he’s just trying to keep his composure. Never been one for politics or public presence or any of that shit.

 

Evidently, some people take Wes up on the offer, but he isn’t listening. Just wants to fucking  _ scream  _ already, like that might wake everyone up, get them all to realize that this is  _ insane. _

 

But he’s gonna behave. Gonna be good.

 

* * *

He damn near jumps out of his skin when all the people start moving. Must’ve finished up giving speeches, but for the first few seconds, he’s scared. More scared than he’s been in a long time. He’s getting too lost in his own head, playing out the end of the world.

 

Matty rests a hand against the small of his back, guiding him along. They’re working their way into the line of people, all headed up to the casket like a swarm of fucking ants.

 

People are gawking at him, too, but he’s being  _ good,  _ acting like everything’s fine, so odds are, they just know who he is. Still has something of a reputation, even after the fact that he’s crazy and broken and a liability was front page news. Smiles in that way people hate, flashing all his teeth, crooked and wild, and waves.

 

And the line keeps moving. He isn’t too sure what the point is anyway, doesn’t care enough to ask, just needs something to keep his mind off of everything at once. He likes scaring people, really, and it’s accomplishing something or another.

 

Nobody’s even talking, just whispering. And the truth of the matter is that he really, really, honest to god, hates whispering. Hates how he can’t tell where it’s coming from or if it’s even really happening, how he can’t make out half the words when he’s too far away. Makes him twitchy.

 

It doesn’t take long for them to get right close to the casket, next in line. Or maybe it does, maybe it takes all damn day. He’s not really all the way there, feels bad about it, too, ‘cos he’s not gonna be able to save them if he’s so spaced out.

 

But they silently step up to it, all three of them together. And it’s a whole lot bigger than it looks from the back of the church.

 

He knew, kind of, that Fisk was  _ big.  _ Imposing. Almost inhuman. But now he’s peering down into the casket, almost gets the urge to get up on his tip-toes, so he can see better, like a fucking kid or something. 

 

And it’s  _ freaky.  _ No blood or nothing. 

 

Doesn’t even look like his head was hacked off, all done up in one of his suits. His eyes are shut, too, and Bullseye wants to peel back his eyelids and see if they put the one he took out back in ‘cos it sure looks like they did, sure looks like there’s something under that thin layer of skin.

 

He’s done ones where you wouldn’t be able to tell anything’s wrong. One of his specialties, even, nice and secret. But he  _ held  _ Fisk down when Elektra killed him, felt him stop moving, stop struggling, didn’t have enough fight in him to make it out alive even after dislocating Bullseye’s arm.

 

Then he blinks, and it’s not Fisk.

 

Blinks again, and it is but it isn’t. It’s just a face, just a body. Cleaned it up and now it looks  _ wrong _ , looks like nothing ever happened.

 

Rewound everything and all the guts and gore went back in the body and all the blood arced in reverse, pulled up into the arteries, and the bone-shards nestled right back where they’re supposed to be and the skin stitched itself together again and it never, ever happened. Even if he remembers it.

 

He could remember it backwards, maybe. That might help.

 

“He’s gonna be so mad when he wakes up,” he drawls, “Gonna be in  _ big  _ trouble.”

 

Except he knows that won’t happen, figured it out the first time. Dad never woke up and wrung his neck for shooting him in the face because dad was dead and he waited  _ days  _ until he just couldn’t take it anymore just to make sure and dad’s  _ dead  _ and Fisk’s dead too.

 

“ _ What? _ ”

 

He shivers like somebody just walked over his grave and blinks a few times more, trying to make everything make sense.

 

“Nothin’.”

 

“Shh,” Elektra says, voice low and sharp, “We have people staring at us.”

 

He growls, voice caught at the back of his throat, “Let them stare.”

 

It doesn’t matter anyway, none of them do. None of them are even real, there’s not a damn thing in this world that feels real anymore.

 

Well, save for the feeling of Red’s hand, settling into place against the small of his back yet again. He wants to lean into it, feels half ready to collapse into Matty and let him deal with all of this instead.

 

“Come on,” Red whispers, breath warm against the back of his neck.

 

So he lets Matty lead him away from the casket, trying to get his heart to stop jackhammering in his chest. Shouldn’t have let himself get so worked up, but he couldn’t help it. He’d bolt if he could do much of anything without someone damn near forcing him along.

 

He’s been around his own fair share of bodies, even as a long range specialist. Isn’t some pathetic little kid seeing one for the first time. Isn’t gonna puke on the carpet and go scrub himself raw for an hour or two and then cry himself to sleep. 

 

But they’re usually fresher than this, usually still got a spark of life in them. Tucks them away, out of sight, out of mind, if he’s gonna stick around for any length of time. Maybe the blood makes them look more human. Maybe it’s how they’ve got fucked up hair and rumpled clothes and it looks like something  _ happened. _

 

As much as he hates it, his heart starts racing, blood runs cold, picturing all of them lined up in perfect little boxes, caught somewhere between the instant right before they realized they were dead and some selfish  _ need  _ to bend the world into something it isn’t. 

 

He  _ despises  _ it. Might be enough to put him off of killing all together, if he wasn’t so damn good at it.

 

Red grazes his knuckles against Bullseye’s jaw, real private about it, “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,  _ really _ . I don’t want to be here.”

 

Figures Matty’s asking ‘cos he’s scared something’s about to happen. But it isn’t, at least as far as he knows. Trusts Elektra to pick up on anything he’s missing out on, anyway.

 

“You should eat something,” Red adds, just as soft as before.

 

And he shakes his head, trying to get everything back into focus. They’re standing by a table, all set up with food, swarmed by mourners whispering idly to each other. The journalist is still kicking around, snapping pictures and pausing to talk with someone every now and again, hushed and solemn.

 

He weaves his way over to the table, picking over the impeccable platters of food, looking for anything that’s recognizable. Never been one for the fancy shit and right about now, it’s all he can do to try and stay coherent. Nothing seems to make any sense, like he’s looking at everything from underwater.

 

He’s so damn tired, worn down right to the bone. Wants to go home and curl up and sleep for a week or so, wake up when everything’s back to normal. When he can think straight and he isn’t staring down a goddamn table full of food like he’s trying to figure out what he’s supposed to do.

 

What he really wants is for someone to come break him out of this trance, save him from whatever he’s all caught up in. Hates being confused more than anything, feeling all disoriented and groggy and half alive.

 

Elektra sidles up to him, reaching right past his line of sight to pluck something or another off the platters of food. She stays close by him as she eats, surveying the crowd without hardly turning her head.

 

Wants to reach out for her, hold onto her like she's his goddamn saving grace, but he's the bodyguard and she's already with Matty and people will talk. Plus, if he's this useless, they'll never let him stay, never let him work for them. 

 

Just settles for angling towards her and trying to focus on anything else other than the funeral. But he can barely breathe or he's breathing too fast and the whole wide world is closing in on him.

 

"Bullseye, dear, at least  _ look  _ like you are aware of your surroundings when the photographer is around."

 

She loops her hand around his arm, face dropping to this terrifying, solemn, pursed lipped expression. He turns away from her, facing the room, gets caught dazed in the flash of a camera. Probably looks all wide-eyed and spooked, doesn't make for good press.

 

So he shakes his head, trying to get a hold of himself. Needs to do it for the sake of Handsome and Red. He's cueing off of her, making his face just as stony and somber. Tries not to look so vacant for the reporter in the second shot.

 

And then the journalist drops his camera, letting the strap around his neck do all the work as it rests against his belly. Turns his attention to the little notebook he carries around everywhere.

 

"Miss Natchios, I have to admit I'm a bit surprised to see you here," the reporter says, all part of the game.

 

"Yes, well, Wilson Fisk never ceased the search for justice for my father in my stead. I owe him this much."

 

She's lying through her teeth, but that's all any of them do. Might be his problem now, spent too much time being honest and now he doesn't know how to put up a front. Wearing his fucking heart on his sleeve.

 

"Oh, of course," the journalist finishes jotting down notes and bows his head slightly, almost apologetic, "And who is  _ this _ ?"

 

"My bodyguard."

 

The reporter frowns, just for a second, like it isn't a good enough story. Like it'll be too hard to sell and the whole damn thing will unravel right before their eyes.

 

"I'm more than I look," he says, glaring at the reporter as if to say  _ you know me, you know you should be scared of me _ , "It's good to look unassuming. Trade secret: let them underestimate you. Trust me, I'll keep her safe."

 

The reporter pales a mite at that, makes him smile, but it doesn't deter the fucker much, "Are you planning to stay in the states for long?"

 

"Hm, I suppose so. I  _ have  _ reconnected with my dearest Matthew since arriving for the anniversary. He  _ must  _ be around here somewhere."

 

"At least there's some kind of upside to all of this," the journalist laughs, hollow and rehearsed.

 

Bullseye has always despised this song and dance. He's an actor, yes, but this is so painfully obvious that he's not sure how anyone's caught on yet. Maybe they're used to it, coming from a reporter.

 

All he knows is that the journalist isn't being subtle about the lies and misdirection and he's half certain someone's bound to step in and call them on it. But the guy just keeps on talking to Elektra, jotting things down, and  _ he's  _ doing his best to look like he's lucid.

 

Somewhere along the way he makes it to eating. Doesn't remember how or when it started, just knew it was a get out of jail free card. No one's gonna try and interview him while he's picking away at a plate of appetizers in the middle of a funeral.

 

And he stays close to Elektra, feels like he might just drift away if he's all on his lonesome for any amount of time. Wants to find Matty, but they can't be too close; Wesley already figured out what they are and he's pretty sure Red wouldn't be keen on half the criminal underworld knowing as well.

 

But Elektra must want Matty around as much as he does, 'cos they all end up together soon enough. Just finally manages to catch his breath, imagining Red running his hands over his scalp, trying to calm him down. Really, though, Red just rests a hand against his shoulder and squeezes. Nothing too obvious.

 

Doesn't last long, 'cos Wesley strides up to them, grinning like a man possessed. Got exactly what he wanted and they didn't even try and fight back.

 

"I'm glad to see you three made it," he draws each word out, scraping over his teeth, smiling like they actually had a choice, "And you got  _ him  _ cleaned up. Good job."

 

"I can take care of my fucking self." 

 

Doesn’t say it too loud, like he’s not sure he wants Wes to hear.

 

And then Red steps in, sharp as a knife, "We're fulfilling your terms, Wesley. Nothing more, nothing less. Don't mistake this for a friendship. As soon as we're done here, we part ways forever and put this behind ourselves."

 

"Matthew, I'm disappointed we won’t be able to work together more, you seem like a man after my own heart."

 

"We could never align ourselves with you, Wesley," Elektra spits.

 

"It seems like Bullseye had a pretty easy time  _ aligning  _ himself with us _.  _ He was a loyal employee for five  _ years  _ until you two saw fit to convince him there was more security with you than with Fisk."

 

Wesley’s always done it, always talked about him like he’s not even in the room, like he’s stupid and thoughtless and needs someone to tell him what’s the right thing to do. Kind of his own damn fault, though. Bent over backwards to keep Fisk happy ‘cos he needed a place to stay and and meds and he never quite figured out how to get that all on his lonesome.

 

He knows what it looks like. Looks like he was the Kingpin’s pet.

 

Makes his stomach turn, always has, taste of bile at the back of his throat, but he had to live with it. Still has to. ‘Cos he’s good at an awful lot of things, but he’s never been too good at really  _ living. _

 

“It was his choice,” Elektra steps in and for once he’s glad she does it, “When presented with the option of continuing on or joining with us, he felt we were preferable despite the fact that both of us have tried to kill him and neither of us will pay him. I wonder what that says of Fisk and his operations, hm?”

 

Wes grinds his teeth, jaw set, hands clenched at his side, just barely holding it together, “Do  _ not  _ speak ill of the dead, miss Natchios.”

 

“I’m pretty sure we can say whatever the  _ fuck  _ we want, all things considered.”

 

Wesley claps, grin spreading across his face, “Ah! He speaks! Do you usually let her talk for you? Or are you just incapable of defending yourself against me?”

 

“One day,” he tilts his head just slightly, narrows his gaze like he’s trying to pick Wesley apart, “One day, I’ll kill you.”

 

Red doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tell him to stop or that they don’t deal in death anymore. Hopes that means Matty knows it’s inevitable, always has been. It won’t happen yet, not when they’re trying to claw their way up in the world, but one day.

 

Wes draws his lips to a thin line, could even mistake it for a frown, “I see you still refuse to be civil.”

 

“I’m being  _ perfectly  _ civil. Coulda just done it right here, right now, instead of warnin’ you.”

 

“If you even so much as try, you won't be leaving this church alive. Now, where were we?” He waves his hand like he’s trying to shoo Bullseye away, “Well, I hope you’re ready for this. I’m afraid you’ll find it’s a full-time career, I do hope that isn’t a  _ problem.” _

 

“We’re more than equipped to handle this,” Matty says, shoulders straight, hands tight on his cane.

 

He imagines this is how Red looked in the courtroom, never got a chance to see it for himself. Thought about it a few times, though. Didn’t learn who it was behind the mask soon enough that he could’ve asked for Matty to be his lawyer and Fisk probably would’ve smacked some sense into him for that, anyway.

 

“Is that so?” Wesley laughs, like he really thinks they’ll fuck this up, “Well, ta-ta for now. I’m certain I’ll see you three again.”

 

Wes ducks out after that. He supposes it oughta count as some kind of victory, making Wesley leave with his tail between his legs like that, but it doesn’t feel like anything at all. He’s still on edge and he still doesn’t want to be here and he still can’t think straight to save his life. Only change is, now he’s aimlessly angry.

 

He scans the room, avoiding looking at anyone in particular for too long. Mostly just wants to avoid Red and Handsome's glare, doesn't want to get scolded for losing his cool. 

 

They're awfully out of place here; don't fit in with the civilians, looking genuinely honest to god sorry about the whole situation, or the other crowd, hiding in plain sight. Half of them probably want to gut Matty like a fish, anyway, even if they don't know who he is.

 

Even  _ Mary's _ here, never even liked Fisk, and he'd go talk to her instead of sticking with Red and Elektra if he didn't think she'd either yell at him, try to jump his bones, or both. She isn't too good of  company but at least she understands him a mite better than Handsome or Matty.

 

But he's not so sure he wants to be understood right now, anyway. Doesn't want to think too hard about all of this and what they're gonna do next and he sure as shit doesn't want to think about Fisk, about his body in the casket and how it looks so  _ untouched _ . And he doesn't want to talk about any of it, either.

 

If it wasn't playing right into his hand, he'd go chase down Wes and poke him and prod him and rile him up until he knocks Bullseye’s lights out. Too chickenshit to do it himself, but it's never been all that hard to find someone who'd do it for him.

 

"We will likely never see him again after this," Elektra's voice cuts through everything, bringing him back to the moment, reminding him of what he ought to be doing.

 

"Still, I don't like it. He's too cocky, I doubt he'll play nice when we  _ don't  _ get ourselves killed."

 

"Can't worry about that now," Bullseye mutters, "There isn't much we can do about it."

 

Red won't stand for the easiest solution and even then, nobody wants a bloodbath, not today.

 

"Why don't you go test the waters?" Red asks, real gentle about it, hand resting against his shoulder.

 

He raises an eyebrow, staring Matty down, "You want  _ me  _ to  _ 'test the waters' _ ?"

 

"This is your world, isn't it? We need to know what allies we still have."

 

Red's right, as much as he hates to admit it; he scowls, arms crossed, "Alright."

 

He can already tell some of the others want to talk to him, probably wanna ask what the fuck he's doing. He's been watching Owlsley and his lot eyeing him up since this morning. Kind of waves at them now, flashing a shit eating grin, almost hopes he starts a fight. 

 

Vulture glares back at him from the group and he damn near chokes on a laugh.  _ Birds of a feather flock together. _ But he'll pay for it eventually. No one likes Fisk much but they all knew he kept them safe, one way or another.

 

Bullseye figures they just want to keep him busy, out of their hair, but he also figures he wants something to do just as bad as they want him gone. So he'll ask around, keep 'em happy, get his mind off things.

 

He slinks off on his own, trying to make up his mind on where to start. Isn't in much of anyone's good graces, these days. Burnt a few too many bridges, didn’t seem to matter much when he was in it for the money.

 

But he’s gotta start somewhere, so he sidles on up to one of Slaughter’s boys, figures they’re on speaking terms now that the guy that bought him out got himself iced.

 

“Powell,” he whispers, flashes this wild half smile, like they’re friends or something, “Figured you’d crawl out of the woodwork for this.”

 

“Doesn’t matter what you’re trying to do,  _ Bullseye,  _ I’m not interested.”

 

He grinds his teeth a second, getting a handle on things again, “You know I could be talkin’ to anyone else here but I’m coming to  _ you.  _ Oughta make you feel special.”

 

“Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying,” Powell spits.

 

“Easy there,” he says, drops his voice just a little bit lower, makes his words just a little bit sharper, “My  _ employers  _ want to know if we’ve got any friends out there on the street these days.”

 

“Course you jumped ship  _ again _ . How much did they offer you? Or did you just get bored?”

 

He snarls, lips pulled back to bear his teeth, “I was young and  _ stupid  _ then. But I wasn’t gonna let myself get killed just ‘cos I signed a contract. Never would’ve taken a hit on Fisk if I wasn’t still green.”

 

“Only took you five years to finish the job!” Powell laughs, makes his blood boil but it’s only worse when he stops, “But it wasn’t you,  _ was it? _ I hear it was the broad that’s holding your leash these days.”

 

“Are you with us or not?”

 

Powell claps him on the shoulder like they’re old pals, “Well, I sure ain’t with Wesley.”

 

* * *

He sets to wandering the reception mindlessly. Oughta pick out his next target but he’s still fucking angry and he’s gotta be on his best behavior if he wants to get out of this one unscathed. If it wasn’t a fucking funeral, maybe he could get blitzed without turning a few heads and it’d all be fine, but he’s gotta sweat this one out sober.

 

And he’s been dodging Matty and Elektra all the while, doesn’t want to admit that he’s fucked things up with anyone worth cooperating with for some reason or another. Just ‘cos he’s got a lot of offers doesn’t mean anyone likes him much.

 

He’s been hugging the walls, too. Being careful and all that. Skirting around the thick of the crowd because he’s pissed off and more than a little bit scared. All of this is out of his wheelhouse and he’d’ve bolted ages ago if it weren’t for whatever it is that keeps him loyal to the two of them.

 

Doesn’t matter too much, anyway, ‘cos obviously he isn’t watching his back as well as he should’ve been. Someone twists his arm behind him, white hot pain shooting up to his shoulder.

 

“Scream and I’ll shoot you,” Wesley whispers, so close Bullseye can feel breath on his ear.

 

Sure enough, Wes punctuates it by jamming something solid into the nape of Bullseye’s neck, soft spot right at the base of his skull. But he isn’t too worried, nothing seems to matter much at all right about now.

 

“Finally picked up a trick or two, I see?” He laughs, closes his eyes as this stupid crooked grin spreads across his face.

 

“Walk.”

 

He gestures with his one free hand, “Lead the way.”

 

Wes nudges him forward and he’s damn certain that it’s impossible not to notice what’s happening, but everyone here either figures it’s business or doesn’t know what to look for. He hates them all. No use even calling for Red ‘cos he won’t need the help once they’re alone and right now, all he’ll get for his troubles is his brains blown out.

 

Ends up led down some corridor, not a soul in sight. Perfect place to die. But Wes doesn’t shoot him then and there, like he oughta if he was smart, ‘cos Wesley wants to  _ talk _ . All he ever wants to do.

 

“You ungrateful little  _ shit,”  _ Wes growls, can barely get the words out from where they catch in his teeth, “Do you have any  _ idea  _ how long it’s taken for me to get you  _ alone?” _

 

“Jeezus, you coulda just  _ asked _ .”

 

Wesley shoves him forward, harder than expected, almost makes him lose his footing. He could run now, probably should, god knows Wes couldn’t hit a moving target to save his fucking life. But it all feels just a little bit trivial, like he’s in no big hurry.

 

So he turns back to face Wes, who’s got his gun trained on him now. Almost goes cross-eyed staring down the barrel, just gawking at it. It’s all kind of funny, if you look at it from the right angle.

 

Isn’t too sure any of this is happening, anyway. Kind of spaced out and lost, like he’s caught in a dream. Like he’s still asleep somewhere, same way Fisk looks, laid up in the casket. And he’s not too sure he’ll feel much of anything right now, but maybe what he needs is a little pain to get him back in shape.

 

They’ll put him back together, anyway. Like nothing ever happened.

 

“ _ Fucking hell _ , I don’t know what Fisk ever saw in a space case like  _ you _ .” 

 

“Huh?” He blinks a couple times, bringing everything else into focus, blurring out the gun pointed at his head.

 

And then his eyes follow as Wes points it up, up, up, above his head, then slowly drags it back down to his feet.

 

“ _ Seriously?! _ ” Wesley huffs, and then Bullseye watches him tuck it back into the holster hidden under his dress jacket, doesn’t take his eyes off the glint of metal, “There’s something incredibly  _ wrong  _ with you.”

 

“Lotsa people say that.”

 

Wesley straightens out his jacket, hiding the holster from view, “I asked you a  _ question. _ ”

 

He blinks a couple times more, trying to get everything back in order, all lined up straight in his head, “You did?”

 

“Yes. Which you would know if you  _ ever  _ paid attention. I asked you why you did  _ this _ .”

 

“Wanted a change of pace, I guess,” he shrugs, trying to wrack his brain for what he even did.

 

He figures it’s got something to do with the body but the faces are all mixed up in his head and he’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be Fisk’s, but he’s not convinced it actually is.

 

“Wilson Fisk was  _ good  _ to you. He kept a roof over your head and made sure you wouldn’t kill yourself with whatever self destructive path you decided to go down. He kept your secrets and made sure you were  _ safe  _ despite being entirely set on trying to tear yourself apart. You would be  _ dead  _ if it weren’t for him and  _ this  _ is how you thank him?”

 

“Shit, Wes,” he laughs, head thrown back, sound bouncing off the walls, “He wanted to  _ own  _ me.”

 

Something about that gets to Wesley, ‘cos he reaches out and grabs him by the shoulders, but Bullseye can’t stop talking. Shaking like a leaf as he does it, but he can’t get himself to shut up.

 

“Coulda left at any time,  _ sure _ , never woulda stopped me or whatever. But the money was too good and nobody else was puttin’ me up in an apartment and nobody else was gonna cover injuries I got off the clock. So I couldn’t leave, not really.”

 

“Is that any different than where you’ve gotten yourself now?” Wes wraps his hands around Bullseye’s throat, “They’ve plucked out your fangs and filed down your claws and now you’re just a spineless, helpless little puppet dancing on their strings. With  _ us  _ you would’ve had  _ choices.” _

 

Wes digs his thumbs into the soft skin on either side of his windpipe, gets him gasping and wheezing for air. Isn’t quite hard enough that he’s given in to panic, figures Wes wants to make a point. He keeps sucking in shallow little breaths, hands slack at his sides.

 

“Your threats are hollow, aren’t they?” Wesley looks him dead in the eye, “You won’t kill me because you would rather die than have them cast you out.”

 

And Wes pushes down harder. 

 

Makes this horrible noise like he’s choking on his own tongue, vision clouded with spots. Finally forces himself to move, clawing at Wesley’s hands. Doesn’t feel like he’s the one doing the moving, though.

 

“You’ve always wanted this, haven’t you? You’re a coward and a masochist. An assassin like you could manage to shoot himself in the head, but you kept trying to get someone else to do it for you.”

 

His vision whites out completely and that’s when he stops struggling with Wesley’s hands. Just loops his fingers loosely around Wes’ wrists.

 

“I see. Just as I thought.”

 

Lashes out after that, going for Wesley’s eyes. 

 

Trying to feel any soft flesh through the pins and needles in his fingers, shooting down his arms. Movements thick, heavy, hard to control. Numb, half aware at best. 

 

Lungs on fire and head pounding and the world’s spinning out underneath him and he keeps on acting without thinking, weird, mindless, animal instinct.

 

Wes eases up just enough that he can inhale, that he can see just a little bit better. And he keeps on trying to dig his nails into Wesley’s cheek, trying to slice him open and make him bleed.

 

“ _ Shit _ ,” Wesley hisses and Bullseye finally gets a chance to choke down another breath.

 

Things are a bit clearer and he kicks out, catching Wes in the shin and then they’re both going down, being dragged by his fucking neck. 

 

Wesley hits the ground first, doesn’t let up. Keeps on squeezing the life out of him.

 

Doesn’t even really mean to do it, he’s just doing anything he can. Slams his head into Wesley’s once, steals another gasp of air, slams his head into Wesley’s again, blood rolling down the back of his throat.

 

Wes squeezes hard enough that his vision blanks out again and Bullseye does it a third time, hot tears tracking down his cheeks and blood bubbling up between his lips, choking twice over now.

 

And then Wesley lets go.

 

Bullseye goes limp, folding against him. Heaving and heaving and it sounds like he’s sobbing, shaking trying to get air into his lungs. Still on top of Wes, though, and it’s gotta be some kind of sign that he doesn’t try and finish the job again.

 

He’s crying, alright. Doesn’t even want to be doing it but he can’t stop and he can’t bring himself to sit up and he’s spitting out blood in between big, wheezing breaths, just waiting for his vision to clear all the way up.

 

When he can finally see again, when he stops damn near hyperventilating, he pushes himself up to his knees. 

 

Then, he wipes away the tears like a man possessed, ‘cos he doesn’t want anyone to know that he was crying. Licks at his lips, too, trying to clean away the blood pouring down from his nose, but he figures it’s a lost cause.

 

After that, he gets to his feet. Almost topples right back over because it sure as shit feels like the world drops out from under him. But he holds his ground and wraps his arms tight around himself and stops for another few minutes to just  _ breathe.  _ Never gonna take that for granted again.

 

There’s a lot of blood on the tile floor. Too much for it to be his.

 

He turns around awful slowly and staggers back out to the reception.

 

* * *

“I think I killed Wes,” he mumbles, low and gravelly and hoarse, pretty sure he did, anyways.

 

Elektra whips around, so fast it makes his head spin.

 

“Don’t tell Matty,  _ please _ .”

 

She raises her hand, half clenched into a fist, and he flinches. Must notice, ‘cos she lets it drop back to her side and she looks him over, all concerned-like.

 

“What did you  _ do?” _

 

“I don’t  _ know,”  _ his face gets all twisted up, like he’s about to start crying again, “We were talkin’ and things just  _ happened _ .”

 

She lets her voice get all soft, reaches out like she wants to touch him but stops just shy of his shoulder, “You will have to be more specific than that.”

 

“I can show you,” he whispers, voice caught in his throat, “I can.”

 

And he leads her back to where it happened, holding onto her hand for dear life all the while.

 

Wesley’s still on the floor, still lying motionless in a smear of blood. Which means he was right, he killed him. He’d be able to tell if Wes was breathing, but he’s not. He’s just still.

 

And it’s  _ stupid _ . He kills people all the fucking time. There’s no reason why he should feel as scared and small and confused as he does. He just wanted Wesley to stop and he knows _ , he knows,  _ they never stop until they’re dead.

 

Just stands there, shifting from foot to foot, wringing his hands. Can hardly bear to look at the body straight on. Just keeps peering out of the corner of his eyes like it might change something.

 

Elektra finally sighs after a fucking eternity, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, “You know that we have to tell Matthew.”

 

“ _ No _ ,” he begs, voice still so small and thready and broken, heart threatening to up and give out right then and there, “No, you  _ can’t _ . He’ll be mad, he’ll be so  _ mad _ .”

 

“We have to do  _ something  _ about this predicament you have entangled us with.”

 

“It was an accident,” he presses his palms against the side of his head, trying to make everything clear again, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

 

“You did  _ exactly  _ what you have been threatening to do for the past week.”

 

“I just wanted him to  _ stop,  _ I wanted him to leave me  _ alone _ ,” he sets to rubbing at his eyes, almost frantic, doesn’t want her to see him cry ‘cos it’s happening again, tears welling up at the corners of his eyes, and his head fucking hurts and everything still tastes like blood.

 

“You wanted him to stop  _ what _ ?”

 

The question kind of cuts through everything. Gets him right down to the bone. He isn’t sure, at first; everything’s so fucking tangled together and he’s here but he isn’t and he’s still lightheaded from…

 

From the  _ fight  _ because--

 

“He was chokin’ me. _ I think _ . I think he was.”

 

Elektra sighs again, eyes closed just slightly, “Well, that certainly explains your voice.”

 

He's noticed it too, how wrong he sounds. Only halfway putting two and two together. Nothing seems to fit right, anyway.

 

"Go. Clean yourself up and come back here when you have composed yourself. I will tell Matthew."

 

"He's gonna  _ hate  _ me," he whines; there's something broken deep down inside him, makes him get all small and scared sometimes, "He's never gonna want to be near me  _ again _ ."

 

“Bullseye,” she says, sterner this time, “You look frightful. Wash your face before anyone sees you and starts asking questions.”

 

He nods, knows how to deal with that. Knows how to clean everything up so nice and shiny and peachy keen that nobody will ask anything. Never quite forgot how to do it, even after all these years.

 

* * *

He makes it to the bathroom alright, even if it takes a good while to find it. Goddamn miracle nobody sees him wandering the halls like he’s haunting the fucking place. He’s awful glad there’s no one else in there, too.

 

Kind of wants to break down completely, give up on trying to keep his head above water and just give in. But he might not pull himself back together enough to fix all this and he’s the one that broke it, really oughta do  _ something  _ about it. 

 

(He wants to get back in Matty’s good graces more than anything.)

 

(Elektra’s doing him a favor, sending him away. That way he won’t have to be there when Red gets the news.)

 

He ends up gripping the sink as tight as he can, folded over and forcing himself to breathe through this instead of up and crying yet a-fucking-gain. 

 

There’s blood on his perfectly white gloves and now it’s smeared across the sink and he’s just making a big mess, like always. Almost too much for him to handle right now, he wants to scrub down the sink and scour the tile in the hallway until there’s nothing left.

 

When he finally straightens up and catches his reflection’s eyes, he can tell that Handsome was right. There’s blood and snot streaked down from his nose, smeared across his lips. Dried tears tracked down his cheeks, still so fucking white, like all the blood’s been drained out of him, like Fisk in the casket. Scratches all over his neck from Wes trying to fight back, trying to save his own  _ life  _ but it  didn’t even matter ‘cos Bullseye killed him on accident.

 

Gonna be bruises in a couple days too. Nasty ones. Won’t be able to go out in his civvies without getting gawked at and that’s the last thing they need these days.

 

He peels off his gloves and gets to work. Grabs some paper towels and gets them wet enough to wipe away the tear-lines, the blood. It isn’t easy, still doesn’t feel like he’s moving his own body. And, odds are he’s broken his nose again, ‘cos it hurts every time he gets near to touching it.

 

Might be concussed too, since apparently he head-butted Wesley hard enough to fucking kill him. Everything’s been pretty hazy all day, can’t tell if he’s any worse off now than he was before.

 

Gets as clean as he’s ever gonna manage. The skin around his eyes is still all splotchy and his neck’s still all torn up. So he just does up the top button on his shirt and hopes the scratches don’t start bleeding again. The fabric hurts, pressed flush to the raw skin, but he needs to hide whatever he can.

 

And then he sets to finding his way back to Red and Handsome. It’s easier heading out the way he came, can see the pathways clearer in his head once he’s walked them already.

 

There’s a few people milling around, drifted from the reception, but he avoids them as best he can. Can’t answer any questions, not without his voice giving him away. He’s always sounded raspy, been chain smoking since he was freshly fourteen, but he doesn’t usually sound this broken.

 

Sounds like he screamed himself hoarse, knows from fucking experience what that sounds like.

 

He hopes it’ll all be back to normal in a couple of days, but he’s not usually that lucky. Gonna be reminded of what happened anyway by the bruises; always seem to last longer than they ought to.

 

And he's not sure what he's even expecting, but seeing the two of them in the corridor, standing around Wesley's body, just gets to him.

 

"I'm sorry," he says, before Matty even gets a chance to chew him out, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to kill him, I was bein' good for you, I promise, I promise. He was alive and then he wasn't and I don't know what happened."

 

Red just purses his lips, drawn to a thin line; waits until Bullseye's gone silent to speak, "Don't say things that could implicate us where other people can hear us."

 

"Okay. Sorry. Okay, I won't," he wrings his hands, over and over, mouth running a mile a minute, "What are we gonna do? I don't know how to fix it, I want to, I do, I really do, but I don't know how."

 

"Bullseye, I don't think you've fixed anything,  _ ever _ , in your life."

 

That shuts him up right quick. Makes him want to curl up somewhere small and sleep for a month or so. Just until the bruises are gone and no one's mad at him anymore and Wesley and Fisk are both  _ gone,  _ down in the ground somewhere.

 

It stings, too. Makes him feel so useless and broken. Matty probably doesn't even trust him anymore, probably doesn't think it was an accident.

 

Elektra takes over, though, "Am I correct in assuming you have your costume with you?"

 

He just looks at her, trying to roll the question around in his head until it makes sense. But that's taking too much time for Handsome, evidently, because she stares him down, eyes sharp as a knife.

 

"Are you  _ wearing  _ it?"

 

"Red's gonna be mad about that  _ too, _ " he whines, almost pleading with her.

 

Matty gives this hollow little laugh, "So you're telling me you brought your  _ costume _ to a  _ funeral  _ under your clothes despite having no intention to harm anyone. And then you're telling me you made threats against Wesley, while still wearing said costume  _ under  _ your clothes, and now you expect to believe me that all this was an accident?"

 

"It helps me settle down,  _ okay?  _ Makes me feel nice and safe and calm," his voice damn near gives out under the effort, "We needed calm today, we did."

 

"I do believe it was an accident," Elektra adds, nice and slow, "He seems confused. And it is not his methodology to bludgeon someone to death. Wesley was strangling him."

 

“Okay. I'm sorry I accused you of murder when what we're dealing with is  _ manslaughter.  _ That doesn't make this any easier to get us out of."

 

"If you would listen to me, Matthew, you would know that I have an idea."

 

Red steps back, both hands raised up like he's surrendering to her. 

 

The whole situation just makes him squirm, feeling like he's in trouble, like it's just a matter of time before the world ends. But Red hasn't yelled at him so far, just raised his voice.

 

"Bullseye," Elektra turns to him, voice even, "I need you to put on your costume and take his body out there to the reception and tell everyone there that you killed him on behalf of the Kingpin."

 

He's listening, but he isn't. Can't quite seem to take it all in. Trying to wrap his head around it all so he can  _ fix  _ this, but he can't seem to make himself move. All he can do is stare down at Wesley's blank eyes, the fucked up way his nose looks almost collapsed, how the back of his head's almost sunken in.

 

He's still stuck in place when Elektra moves in a mite closer, raking her nails over his scalp almost carefully, almost lovingly.

 

"You need to do this for us and then we can go home," she keeps on running her hands over the soft fuzz of his hair, "Can you do this for us, Bullseye? I think you can. And then we can go home. We need you to help us out, no one else can take care of this  _ problem _ ."

 

He feels like a child, being coddled and pet and reassured, but god, fucking hell, it's working. It's getting him to settle down for the first time all day, being touched so gently and talked to so deliberately, and it's as good as it is shameful.

 

"All you have to do is go out there and talk. I trust you to say the right things. You just have to talk and then we can go home."

 

Elektra's hand moves down to cup his cheek and she strokes her thumb over the last of his tear-tracks as he nods. Jerky, barely in control of himself.

 

* * *

Handsome and Red head back to the reception, leaving him all on his lonesome with Wes. And he almost, almost chickens out and bolts but Elektra asked him so nicely and Matty said they'd make it up to him and he really just wants this all to be over and done with.

 

When he strips out of his suit, he turns away from Wesley. Doesn't want the empty eyes staring at him. Folds everything up after that and tucks the clothes away out of sight. 

 

He brought the mask, too, and that's the one Red should've been worried about because he only brings the  _ mask  _ when he thinks he's gonna have to work. But he really wasn't planning on killing Wes. Figured Wesley’d be off in Japan by tomorrow.

 

Wesley's a lot heavier than he thought, too. Usually doesn't have to move 'em around too much after they're dead. Doesn't help that he's still kind of spaced out and confused, keeps halfway forgetting what he oughta be doing.

 

But he manages to drag Wes back out to the main room. Brings him right up in front of the casket, so quiet-like barely anyone notices.

 

He whistles loud as he can, ricocheting off the vaulted ceiling. That gets all eyes on him. Nervous chattering between the civilians. Someone screams when they notice the body, posed on his knees, held up by Bullseye’s hands tangled in his hair.

 

"James Wesley is dead," he snarls, voice raised as loud as it'll go, but everything's so quiet, he reckons everyone can hear him, "Killed on behalf of the new Kingpin."

 

Once he's sure everyone's seen the body, he shoves Wes off the viewing platform. The dead weight hits the ground with this sickening thud, sounds too close to when his head caved in, but Bullseye doesn't let himself flinch.

 

"We're cleaning house. If you don't wanna end up like him, you oughta make it clear that you're with us. If you're a little too keen on the old ways, you best watch your back."

 

No one says a word and he'd be lapping it all up, whole fucking church of people staring at him, hanging on his every word. He catches the eye of the reporter, scribbling away in his notebook. Probably made the fucker's day with a story like this. So he grins, broken and crooked and terrifying.

 

"If you want to save your skin, you're gonna have to pledge your loyalty to us. We'll be waiting. All you gotta do is come to Hell's Kitchen and we'll find you."

 

He slips back out when everyone’s still staring at the body. None of ‘em even try to stop him, not even the others in the industry. Figures that oughta count for something, might mean they’re safe, at least for now.

 

He slinks back to the hallway where he stowed his civvies. There’s still blood on the floor and he sure as shit isn’t gonna clean it up, doesn’t want to think about this ever again. Someone else can deal with it.

 

And once he’s all dressed back up--mask tucked away in his waistband, hidden under his jacket--he slips out the back. Meanders around outside the church, waiting for Elektra and Red to catch up with him.

 

Times like this, he almost regrets giving up smokes. Used to be what he did with his hands, to keep himself busy, settle his nerves, all that shit. Now he’s just stuck pacing around, waiting.

 

It takes them a good while to get out. Might look suspicious if they left too soon. It’s agonizing work, passing the time. Keeps jumping out of his skin every time he hears sirens, but he doubts anyone called the cops anyway.

 

When he finally spots them, it takes all he’s got not to just run over to them. Lets them come to him, doesn’t want to draw too much attention. 

 

“Walk,” Red says, voice down low, “Don’t look back. Don’t say anything. We need to get out of here before anyone notices you. We can regroup at the apartment.”

 

He nods, follows along like he’s supposed to. At least they’re finally heading back home.

 

* * *

The next few weeks are a blur.

 

He makes the front page again, for the first time since he broke out. Plastered all over every newsstand in the city. The reporter’s a smart one, left out the line about the Kingpin, but it’s official. He’s the one what killed Wesley and they’re wagering he killed Fisk too. No one’s saying much of anything about how decapitation isn’t his modus operandi, but he figures no one wants to look too close at the case.

 

After staking their claim, it was easy finding another apartment. Turns out people are far more keen to sell when they know you’re the fucking Kingpin of New York. Handsome sinks her money into a nice one; penthouse, lots of open space and light, kind of place a socialite would take up nest. Two bedrooms, for plausible deniability.

 

Not too long after that, she goes public, announcing that she’s planning on  _ staying  _ in the city. How she’s so  _ moved  _ after the tragedy following the anniversary of her father’s death. Comes with a short little paragraph about how her  _ boyfriend  _ is taking some time off as a lawyer to spend his days doing outreach work in the aftermath of the city going to shit. She’s funding it all, of course. Distraught  little rich girl putting her inheritance into making sure that no one suffers alone like she did.

 

Doesn’t matter that it’s barely even her money, these days.

 

The response was a lot bigger than they expected. Solid two weeks of back to back meetings with everyone worth talking to in the city. Most of them accepted the terms without too much fuss.

 

They’re good terms. Smart ones, too. Free reign so long as no one innocent gets hurt; steal from banks so long as they’re insured, take from the wicked and give to the needy, all that shit. Cash rewards for information on anyone who’s a threat to the city; politicians, police, and otherwise. The three of them get a cut of the profits from anything that goes on, but it isn’t too bad ‘cos the money’s going right back to the city, trying to make it better.

 

God knows if it’ll work out like that. But they’re trying.

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory disclaimer that bullseye in this verse is trans but it's not like. a big deal at all. to quote mr. david lynch, fix your hearts or die (or just carry on with your scrolling through of ao3.) if it's gonna affect your reading of devil in the details, then so be it but there have definitely been hints if you know where to look. i just think that it's a character beat supported by the emphasis on his name thing.


End file.
